UC-NRLF 


III 


X 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.     Bartlett 
Heard 


*     ' 


attrition 


THE 

COMPLETE  WORKS  OF  NATHANIEL 

HAWTHORNE,  WITH   INTRODUCTORY 

NOTES  BY  GEORGE  PARSONS 

LATHROP 

AND    ILLUSTRATED   WITH 

Etchings  by  Blum,  Church,  Dielman,  Gifford>  Shirlaw, 
and  Turner 

IN    THIRTEEN    VOLUMES 
VOLUME   XL 


I  he  Drink  of    Immortality."    Septimus  Feltort 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE 
FANSHAWE,  AND  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON 


WITH  AN  APPENDIX  CONTAINING 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

€I)e  fctbnSt&e  |3restf,  Cambrttfge 
1891 


Copyright,  1864, 
BY  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS. 

Copyright,  1871  and  1876, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD   &  CO. 

Copyright,  1882, 
BY  ROSE  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP. 

Copyright,  1883, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A, 
Electrotyped  aud  Printed  by  II.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


ro  /xvu 

2>6       / 

/  ?  ?3 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  TO  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE        .  .        9 

A  SCENE  FROM  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE    .         .        .        .  15 

ANOTHER  SCENE  FROM  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE          .  .       34 

ANOTHER  FRAGMENT  OF  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE    .        .  48 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  TO  FANSHAWE         .         .        .         ,  .71 

FANSHAWE 73 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  TO  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON         .        .  .221 

SEPTIMIUS  FELTON 229 

APPENDIX. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  TO  THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP    .  .    433 

THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP   .        .        .  437 


THE  DOLLITER  ROMANCE. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


THE   DOLLIYER   ROMANCE. 

IN  "  The  Dolliver  Romance,"  only  three  chapters  of 
which  the  author  lived  to  complete,  we  get  an  intima 
tion  as  to  what  would  have  been  the  ultimate  form 
given  to  that  romance  founded  on  the  Elixir  of  Life, 
for  which  "  Septimius  Felton "  was  the  preliminary 
study.  Having  abandoned  this  study,  and  apparently 
forsaken  the  whole  scheme  in  1862,  Hawthorne  was 
moved  to  renew  his  meditation  upon  it  in  the  follow 
ing  year;  and  as  the  plan  of  the  romance  had  now 
seemingly  developed  to  his  satisfaction,  he  listened  to 
the  publisher's  proposal  that  it  should  begin  its  course 
as  a  serial  story  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly"  for  Jan 
uary,  1864  —  the  first  instance  in  which  he  had  at 
tempted  such  a  mode  of  publication. 

But  the  change  from  England  to  Massachusetts  had 
been  marked  by,  and  had  perhaps  in  part  caused,  a 
decline  in  his  health.  Illness  in  his  family,  the  de 
pressing  and  harrowing  effect  of  the  Civil  War  upon 
his  sensibilities,  and  anxiety  with  regard  to  pecuniary 
affairs,  all  combined  to  make  still  further  inroads  upon 
his  vitality ;  and  so  early  as  the  autumn  of  1862  Mrs. 
Hawthorne  noted  in  her  private  diary  that  her  hus 
band  was  looking  "  miserably  ill."  At  no  time  since 
boyhood  had  he  suffered  any  serious  sickness,  and  his 


10  INTRODUCTORY   NOTE.  . 

strong  constitution  enabled  him  to  rally  from  this  first 
attack ;  but  the  gradual  decline  continued.  After 
sending  forth  "  Our  Old  Home,"  he  had  little  strength 
for  any  employment  more  arduous  than  reading,  or 
than  walking  his  accustomed  path  among  the  pines 
and  sweetfern  on  the  hill  behind  The  Wayside,  known 
to  his  family  as  the  Mount  of  Vision.  The  projected 
work,  therefore,  advanced  but  slowly.  He  wrote  to 
Mr.  Fields :  — 

"I  don't  see  much  probability  of  my  having  the 
first  chapter  of  the  Romance  ready  so  soon  as  you 
want  it.  There  are  two  or  three  chapters  ready  to  be 
written,  but  I  am  not  yet  robust  enough  to  begin,  and 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  carry  it  through." 

The  presentiment  proved  to  be  only  too  well  founded. 
He  had  previously  written  :  — 

"  There  is  something  preternatural  in  my  reluctance 
to  begin.  I  linger  at  the  threshold,  and  have  a  per 
ception  of  very  disagreeable  phantasms  to  be  encoun 
tered  if  I  enter.  I  wish  God  had  given  me  the  faculty 
of  writing  a  sunshiny  book." 

And  again,  in  November,  he  says  :  "  I  foresee  that 
there  is  little  probability  of  my  getting  the  first  chap 
ter  ready  by  the  15th,  although  I  have  a  resolute  pur 
pose  to  write  it  by  the  end  of  the  month."  He  did 
indeed  send  it  by  that  time,  but  it  began  to  be  appar 
ent  in  January  that  he  could  not  go  on. 

"  Seriously,"  he  says,  in  one  letter,  "  my  mind  has, 
for  the  present,  lost  its  temper  and  its  fine  edge,  and 
I  have  an  instinct  that  I  had  better  keep  quiet.  Per 
haps  I  shall  have  a  new  spirit  of  vigor  if  I  wait  qui 
etly  for  it;  perhaps  not."  In  another:  "I  hardly 
know  what  to  say  to  the  public  about  this  abortive 
Romance,  though  I  know  pretty  well  what  the  case 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  11 

will  be.  I  shall  never  finish  it.  ...  I  cannot  finish 
it  unless  a  great  change  conies  over  me ;  and  if  I  make 
too  great  an  effort  to  do  so,  it  will  be  my  death." 

Finally,  work  had  to  be  given  over  indefinitely.  In 
April  he  went  southward  with  Mr.  Ticknor,  the  senior 
partner  of  his  publishing  house ;  but  Mr.  Ticknor  died 
suddenly  in  Philadelphia,  and  Hawthorne  returned  to 
The  Wayside  more  feeble  than  ever.  He  lingered 
there  a  little  while.  Then,  early  in  May,  came  the 
last  effort  to  recover  tone,  by  means  of  a  carriage-jour 
ney,  with  his  friend  Ex-President  Pierce,  through  the 
southern  part  of  Xew  Hampshire.  A  week  passed,  and 
all  was  ended  :  at  the  hotel  in  Plymouth,  Xew  Hamp 
shire,  wiiere  he  and  his  companion  had  stopped  to  rest, 
he  died  in  the  night,  between  the  18th  and  the  19th 
of  May,  1864.  Like  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  he  was 
touched  by  death's  upetrific  mace  "  before  he  had  had 
time  to  do  more  than  lay  the  groundwork  and  begin 
the  main  structure  of  the  fiction  he  had  in  hand  ;  and, 
as  in  the  case  of  Thackeray,  the  suddenness  of  his  de 
cease  has  never  been  clearly  accounted  for.  The  pre 
cise  nature  of  his  malady  was  not  known,  since  with 
quiet  hopelessness  he  had  refused  to  take  medical  ad 
vice.  His  friend  Dr.  Oliver  "Wendell  Holmes  was  the 
only  physician  who  had  an  opportunity  to  take  even 
a  cursory  view  of  his  case,  which  he  did  in  the  course 
of  a  brief  wralk  and  conversation  in  Boston  before 
Hawthorne  started  with  Mr.  Pierce ;  but  he  was  un 
able,  with  that  slight  opportunity,  to  reach  any  defi 
nite  conclusion.  Dr.  Holmes  prescribed  and  had  put 
up  for  him  a  remedy  to  palliate  some  of  the  poignant 
symptoms,  and  this  Hawthorne  carried  with  him ;  but 
"  I  feared,"  Dr.  Holmes  writes  to  the  editor,  "  that 
there  was  some  internal  organic  —  perhaps  malignant 


12  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

—  disease ;  for  he  looked  wasted  and  as  if  stricken 
with  a  mortal  illness." 

The  manuscript  of  the  unfinished  "  Dolliver  Ro 
mance  "  lay  upon  his  coffin  during  the  funeral  ser 
vices  at  Concord,  but,  contrary  to  the  impression  some 
times  entertained  on  this  point,  was  not  buried  with 
him.  It  is  preserved  in  the  Concord  Public  Library0 
The  first  chapter  was  published  in  the  "  Atlantic  "  as 
an  isolated  portion,  soon  after  his  death ;  and  subse 
quently  the  second  chapter,  which  he  had  been  unable 
to  revise,  appeared  in  the  same  periodical.  Between 
this  and  the  third  fragment  there  is  a  gap,  for  bridg 
ing  which  no  material  was  found  among  his  papers ; 
but,  after  hesitating  for  several  years,  Mrs.  Hawthorne 
copied  and  placed  in  the  publishers'  hands  that  final 
portion,  which,  with  the  two  parts  previously  printed, 
constitutes  the  whole  of  what  Hawthorne  had  put  into 
tangible  form. 

Hawthorne  had  purposed  prefixing  a  sketch  of  Tho- 
reau,  "  because,  from  a  tradition  which  he  told  me 
about  this  house  of  mine,  I  got  the  idea  of  a  deathless 
man,  which  is  now  taking  a  shape  very  different  from 
the  original  one."  This  refers  to  the  tradition  men 
tioned  in  the  editor's  note  to  "  Septimius  Felton,"  and 
forms  a  link  in  the  interesting  chain  of  evidence  con 
necting  that  romance  with  the  "  Dolliver  Romance." 
With  the  plan  respecting  Thoreau  he  combined  the 
idea  of  writing  an  autobiographical  preface,  wherein 
The  Wayside  was  to  be  described,  after  the  man 
ner  of  his  Introduction  to  the  "Mosses  from  an  Old 
Manse  " ;  but,  so  far  as  is  known,  nothing  of  this  was 
ever  actually  committed  to  paper. 

Beginning  with  the  idea  of  producing  an  English 
romance,  fragments  of  which  remain  to  us  in  "  The 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  13 

Ancestral  Footstep,"  and  the  incomplete  work  known 
as  "  Doctor  Grimsbawe's  Secret,"  he  replaced  these  by 
another  design,  of  which  "  Septimius  Felton  "  repre 
sents  the  partial  execution.  But  that  elaborate  study 
yielded,  in  its  turn,  to  "The  Dolliver  Kornance." 
The  last-named  wrork,  had  the  author  lived  to  carry 
it  out,  would  doubtless  have  become  the  vehicle  of  a 
profound  and  pathetic  drama,  based  on  the  instinctive 
yearning  of  man  for  an  immortal  existence,  the  at 
tempted  gratification  of  which  would  have  been  set 
forth  in  a  variety  of  ways :  First,  through  the  selfish 
old  sensualist,  Colonel  Dabney,  who  greedily  seized 
the  mysterious  elixir  and  took  such  a  draught  of  it 
that  he  perished  on  the  spot ;  then,  through  the  simple 
old  Grandsir,  anxious  to  live  for  Pansie's  sake  ;  and, 
perhaps,  through  Pansie  herself,  who,  coming  into  the 
enjoyment  of  some  ennobling  love,  would  wish  to  de 
feat  death,  so  that  she  might  always  keep  the  perfec 
tion  of  her  mundane  happiness,  —  all  these  forms  of 
striving  to  be  made  the  adumbration  of  a  higher  one, 
the  shadow-play  that  should  direct  our  minds  to  the 
true  immortality  beyond  this  world. 

G.  P.  L. 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 


A   SCENE   FROM   THE   DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

DR.  DOLLIVER,  a  worthy  personage  of  extreme  an 
tiquity,  was  aroused  rather  prematurely,  one  summer 
morning,  by  the  shouts  of  the  child  Pansie,  in  an  ad 
joining  chamber,  summoning  old  Martha  (who  per 
formed  the  duties  of  nurse,  housekeeper,  and  kitchen- 
maid,  in  the  Doctor's  establishment)  to  take  up  her 
little  ladyship  and  dress  her.  The  old  gentleman 
woke  with  more  than  his  customary  alacrity,  and,  af 
ter  taking  a  moment  to  gather  his  wits  about  him, 
pulled  aside  the  faded  moreen  curtains  of  his  ancient 
bed,  and  thrust  his  head  into  a  beam  of  sunshine  that 
caused  him  to  wink  and  withdraw  it  again.  This  tran 
sitory  glimpse  of  good  Dr.  Dolliver  showed  a  flannel 
night -cap,  fringed  round  with  stray  locks  of  silvery 
white  hair,  and  surmounting  a  meagre  and  duskily  yel 
low  visage,  which  was  crossed  and  criss-crossed  with  a 
record  of  his  long  life  in  wrinkles,  faithfully  written, 
no  doubt,  but  with  such  cramped  chirography  of  Father 
Time  that  the  purport  was  illegible.  It  seemed  hardly 
worth  while  for  the  patriarch  to  get  out  of  bed  any 
more,  and  bring  his  forlorn  shadow  into  the  summer 
day  that  was  made  for  younger  folks.  The  Doctor, 
however,  was  by  no  means  of  that  opinion,  being  con 
siderably  encouraged  towards  the  toil  of  living  twenty- 


16  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

four  hours  longer  by  the  comparative  ease  with  which 
he  found  himself  going  through  the  usually  painful 
process  of  bestirring  his  rusty  joints  (stiffened  by  the 
very  rest  and  sleep  that  should  have  made  them  plia 
ble)  and  putting  them  in  a  condition  to  bear  his  weight 
upon  the  floor.  Nor  was  he  absolutely  disheartened 
by  the  idea  of  those  tonsorial,  ablutionary,  and  person 
ally  decorative  labors  which  are  apt  to  become  so  in 
tolerably  irksome  to  an  old  gentleman,  after  perform 
ing  them  daily  and  daily  for  fifty,  sixty,  or  seventy 
years,  and  finding  them  still  as  immitigably  recurrent 
as  at  first.  Dr.  Dolliver  could  nowise  account  for  this 
happy  condition  of  his  spirits  and  physical  energies, 
until  he  remembered  taking  an  experimental  sip  of  a 
certain  cordial  which  was  long  ago  prepared  by  his 
grandson,  and  carefully  sealed  up  in  a  bottle,  and  had 
been  reposited  in  a  dark  closet,  among  a  parcel  of 
effete  medicines,  ever  since  that  gifted  young  man's 
death. 

"  It  may  have  wrought  effect  upon  me,"  thought 
the  doctor,  shaking  his  head  as  he  lifted  it  again  from 
the  pillow.  "  It  may  be  so  ;  for  poor  Edward  often 
times  instilled  a  strange  efficacy  into  his  perilous  drugs. 
But  I  will  rather  believe  it  to  be  the  operation  of  God's 
mercy,  which  may  have  temporarily  invigorated  my 
feeble  age  for  little  Pansie's  sake." 

A  twinge  of  his  familiar  rheumatism,  as  he  put  his 
foot  out  of  bed,  taught  him  that  he  must  not  reckon  too 
confidently  upon  even  a  day's  respite  from  the  intru 
sive  family  of  aches  and  infirmities,  which,  with  their 
proverbial  fidelity  to  attachments  once  formed,  had 
long  been  the  closest  acquaintances  that  the  poor  old 
gentleman  had  in  the  world.  Nevertheless,  he  fancied 
the  twinge  a  little  less  poignant  than  those  of  yester« 


THE   DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  17 

day  ;  and,  moreover,  after  stinging  him  pretty  smartly, 
it  passed  gradually  off  with  a  thrill,  which,  in  its  lat 
ter  stages,  grew  to  be  almost  agreeable.  Pain  is  but 
pleasure  too  strongly  emphasized.  With  cautious  move 
ments,  and  only  a  groan  or  two,  the  good  Doctor  trans 
ferred  himself  from  the  bed  to  the  floor,  where  he  stood 
awhile,  gazing  from  one  piece  of  quaint  furniture  to 
another  (such  as  stiff -backed  Mayflower  chairs,  an 
oaken  chest-of -drawers  carved  cunningly  with  shapes 
of  animals  and  wreaths  of  foliage,  a  table  with  multi 
tudinous  legs,  a  family  record  in  faded  embroidery,  a 
shelf  of  black-bound  books,  a  dirty  heap  of  gallipots 
and  phials  in  a  dim  corner),  —  gazing  at  these  things, 
and  steadying  himself  by  the  bedpost,  while  his  inert 
brain,  still  partially  benumbed  with  sleep,  came  slowly 
into  accordance  with  the  realities  about  him.  The  ob 
ject  which  most  helped  to  bring  Dr.  Dolliver  com 
pletely  to  his  waking  perceptions  was  one  that  com 
mon  observers  might  suppose  to  have  been  snatched 
bodily  out  of  his  dreams.  The  same  sunbeam  that  had 
dazzled  the  doctor  between  the  bed-curtains  gleamed 
on  the  weather-beaten  gilding  which  had  once  adorned 
this  mysterious  symbol,  and  showed  it  to  be  an  enor 
mous  serpent,  twining  round  a  wooden  post,  and  reach 
ing  quite  from  the  floor  of  the  chamber  to  its  ceiling. 

It  was  evidently  a  thing  that  could  boast  of  consid 
erable  antiquity,  the  dry-rot  having  eaten  out  its  eyes 
and  gnawed  away  the  tip  of  its  tail ;  and  it  must  have 
stood  long  exposed  to  the  atmosphere,  for  a  kind  of 
gray  moss  had  partially  overspread  its  tarnished  gilt 
surface,  and  a  swallow,  or  other  familiar  little  bird  in 
some  by-gone  summer,  seemed  to  have  built  its  nest  in 
the  yawning  and  exaggerated  mouth.  It  looked  like  a 
kind  of  Manichean  idol,  which  might  have  been  ele- 


18  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

vated  on  a  pedestal  for  a  century  or  so,  enjoying  the 
worship  of  its  votaries  in  the  open  air,  until  the  impious 
sect  perished  from  among  men,  —  all  save  old  Dr. 
Dolliver,  who  had  set  up  the  monster  in  his  bedcham 
ber  for  the  convenience  of  private  devotion.  But  we 
are  unpardonable  in  suggesting  such  a  fantasy  to  the 
prejudice  of  our  venerable  friend,  knowing  him  to  have 
been  as  pious  and  upright  a  Christian,  and  with  as  lit 
tle  of  the  serpent  in  his  character,  as  ever  came  of  Pu 
ritan  lineage.  Not  to  make  a  further  mystery  about 
a  very  simple  matter,  this  bedimmed  and  rotten  reptile 
was  once  the  medical  emblem  or  apothecary's  sign  of 
the  famous  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who  practised  physic  in  the 
earlier  days  of  New  England,  when  a  head  of  ^Escula- 
pius  or  Hippocrates  would  have  vexed  the  souls  of  the 
righteous  as  savoring  of  heathendom.  The  ancient 
dispenser  of  drugs  had  therefore  set  up  an  image  of 
the  Brazen  Serpent,  and  followed  his  business  for  many 
years  with  great  credit,  under  this  Scriptural  device  ; 
and  Dr.  Dolliver,  being  the  apprentice,  pupil,  and 
humble  friend  of  the  learned  Swinnerton's  old  age, 
had  inherited  the  symbolic  snake,  and  much  other  val 
uable  property  by  his  bequest. 

While  the  patriarch  was  putting  on  his  small-clothes, 
he  took  care  to  stand  in  the  parallelogram  of  bright 
sunshine  that  fell  upon  the  uncarpeted  floor.  The 
summer  warmth  was  very  genial  to  his  system,  and 
yet  made  him  shiver  ;  his  wintry  veins  rejoiced  at  it, 
though  the  reviving  blood  tingled  through  them  with 
a  half -painful  and  only  half  -  pleasurable  titillation. 
For  the  first  few  moments  after  creeping  out  of  bed, 
he  kept  his  back  to  the  sunny  window,  and  seemed 
mysteriously  shy  of  glancing  thitherward ;  but,  as  the 
June  fervor  pervaded  him  more  and  more  thoroughly, 


THE   DOLLIVER    ROMANCE.  19 

he  turned  bravely  about,  and  looked  forth  at  a  burial- 
ground  on  the  corner  of  which  he  dwelt.  There  lay 
many  an  old  acquaintance,  who  had  gone  to  sleep  with 
the  flavor  of  Dr.  Dolliver's  tinctures  and  powders 
upon  his  tongue ;  it  was  the  patient's  final  bitter 
taste  of  this  world,  and  perhaps  doomed  to  be  a  recol 
lected  nauseousness  in  the  next.  Yesterday,  in  the 
chill  of  his  forlorn  old  age,  the  Doctor  expected  soon 
to  stretch  out  his  weary  bones  among  that  quiet  com 
munity,  and  might  scarcely  have  shrunk  from  the 
prospect  on  his  own  account,  except,  indeed,  that  he 
dreamily  mixed  up  the  infirmities  of  his  present  con 
dition  with  the  repose  of  the  approaching  one,  being 
haunted  by  a  notion  that  the  damp  earth,  under  the 
grass  and  dandelions,  must  needs  be  pernicious  for  his 
cough  and  his  rheumatism.  But,  this  morning,  the 
cheerful  sunbeams,  or  the  mere  taste  of  his  grandson's 
cordial  that  he  had  taken  at  bedtime,  or  the  fitful 
vigor  that  often  spoils  irreverently  with  aged  people, 
had  caused  an  unfrozen  drop  of  youthfulness,  some 
where  within  him,  to  expand. 

"  Hem !  ahem  !  "  quoth  the  Doctor,  hoping  with  one 
effort  to  clear  his  throat  of  the  dregs  of  a  ten^ears' 
cou<rh.  "  Matters  are  not  so  far  gone  with  me  as  I 


thought.  I  have  known  mighty  sensible  men,  when 
only  a  little  age-stricken  or  otherwise  out  of  sorts,  to 
die  of  mere  faiut-heartedness,  a  great  deal  sooner  than 
they  need." 

He  shook  his  silvery  head  at  his  own  image  in  the 
looking-glass,  as  if  to  impress  the  apothegm  on  that 
shadowy  representative  of  himself ;  and,  for  his  part, 
he  determined  to  pluck  up  a  spirit  and  live  as  long  as 
he  possibly  could,  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  little 
Pansie,  who  stood  as  close  to  one  extremity  of  human 


20  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

life  as  her  great-grandfather  to  the  other!  This  child 
of  three  years  old  occupied  all  the  unfossilized  portion 
of  Dr.  Dolliver's  heart.  Every  other  interest  that  he 
formerly  had,  and  the  entire  confraternity  of  persons 
whom  he  once  loved,  had  long  ago  departed ;  and  the 
poor  Doctor  could  not  follow  them,  because  the  grasp 
of  Pansie's  baby-fingers  held  him  back. 

So  he  crammed  a  great  silver  watch  into  his  fob, 
and  drew  on  a  patchwork  morning-gown  of  an  ancient 
fashion.  Its  original  material  was  said  to  have  been 
the  embroidered  front  of  his  own  wedding-waistcoat 
and  the  silken  skirt  of  his  wife's  bridal  attire,  which 
his  eldest  granddaughter  had  taken  from  the  carved 
chest-of-drawers,  after  poor  Bessie,  the  beloved  of  his 
youth,  had  been  half  a  century  in  the  grave.  Through 
out  many  of  the  intervening  years,  as  the  garment  got 
ragged,  the  spinsters  of  the  old  man's  family  had 
quilted  their  duty  and  affection  into  it  in  the  shape  of 
patches  upon  patches,  rose-color,  crimson,  blue,  violet, 
and  green,  and  then  (as  their  hopes  faded,  and  their 
life  kept  growing  shadier,  and  their  attire  took  a  som 
bre  hue)  sober  gray  and  great  fragments  of  funereal 
black,  until  the  Doctor  could  revive  the  memory  of 
most  things  that  had  befallen  him  by  looking  at  his 
patchwork-gown,  as  it  hung  upon  a  chair.  And  now 
it  was  ragged  again,  and  all  the  fingers  that  should 
have  mended  it  were  cold.  It  had  an  Eastern  fra 
grance,  too,  a  smell  of  drugs,  strong-scented  herbs,  and 
spicy  gums,  gathered  from  the  many  potent  infusions 
that  had  from  time  to  time  been  spilt  over  it ;  so  that, 
snuffing  him  afar  off,  you  might  have  taken  Dr.  Dolli- 
ver  for  a  mummy,  and  could  hardly  have  been  unde 
ceived  by  his  shrunken  and  torpid  aspect,  as  he  crept 
nearer. 


THE   DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  21 

"Wrapt  in  his  odorous  and  many -colored  robe,  he 
took  staff  in  hand,  and  moved  pretty  vigorously  to  the 
head  of  the  staircase.  As  it  was  somewhat  steep,  and 
but  dimly  lighted,  he  began  cautiously  to  descend, 
putting  his  left  hand  on  the  banister,  and  poking 
down  his  long  stick  to  assist  him  in  making  sure  of 
the  successive  steps  ;  and  thus  he  became  a  living  il 
lustration  of  the  accuracy  of  Scripture,  where  it  de 
scribes  the  aged  as  being  "  afraid  of  that  which  is 
high,"  —  a  truth  that  is  often  found  to  have  a  sadder 
purport  than  its  external  one.  Half-way  to  the  bot 
tom,  however,  the  Doctor  heard  the  impatient  and  au 
thoritative  tones  of  little  Pansie,  —  Queen  Pansie,  as 
she  might  fairly  have  been  styled,  in  reference  to  her 
position  in  the  household,  —  calling  amain  for  grand 
papa  and  breakfast.  He  was  startled  into  such  per 
ilous  activity  by  the  summons,  that  his  heels  slid  on 
the  stairs,  the  slippers  were  shuffled  off  his  feet,  and 
he  saved  himself  from  a  tumble  only  by  quickening 
his  pace,  and  coming  down  at  almost  a  run. 

"  Mercy  on  my  poor  old  bones  !  "  mentally  exclaimed 
the  Doctor,  fancying  himself  fractured  in  fifty  places. 
"  Some  of  them  are  broken,  surely,  and,  methinks,  my 
heart  has  leaped  out  of  my  mouth !  What !  all  right  ? 
Well,  well !  but  Providence  is  kinder  to  me  than  I  de 
serve,  prancing  down  this  steep  staircase  like  a  kid  of 
three  months  old !  " 

He  bent  stiffly  to  gather  up  his  slippers  and  fallen 
staff ;  and  meanwhile  Pansie  had  heard  the  tumult  of 
her  great-grandfather's  descent,  and  was  pounding 
against  the  door  of  the  breakfast-room  in  her  haste  to 
come  at  him.  The  Doctor  opened  it,  and  there  she 
stood,  a  rather  pale  and  large-eyed  little  thing,  quaint 
in  her  aspect,  as  might  well  be  th^  case  with  a  mother* 


22  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

less  child,  dwelling  in  an  uncheerful  house,  with  no 
other  playmates  than  a  decrepit  old  man  and  a  kitten, 
and  no  better  atmosphere  wi thin-doors  than  the  odor 
of  decayed  apothecary's  stuff,  nor  gayer  neighborhood 
than  that  of  the  adjacent  burial-ground,  where  all  her 
relatives,  from  her  great-grandmother  downward,  lay 
calling  to  her,  "  Pansie,  Pansie,  it  is  bedtime !  "  even 
in  the  prime  of  the  summer  morning.  For  those, dead 
women-folk,  especially  her  mother  and  the  whole  row 
of  maiden  aunts  and  grand-aunts,  could  not  but  be 
anxious  about  the  child,  knowing  that  little  Pansie 
would  be  far  safer  under  a  tuft  of  dandelions  than 
if  left  alone,  as  she  soon  must  be,  in  this  difficult  and 
deceitful  world. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  damask  roses  in  her 
cheeks,  she  seemed  a  healthy  child,  and  certainly 
showed  great  capacity  of  energetic  movement  in  the 
impulsive  capers  with  which  she  welcon-ed  her  venera 
ble  progenitor.  She  shouted  out  her  satisfaction,  more 
over  (as  her  custom  was,  having  never  had  any  over 
sensitive  auditors  about  her  to  tame  down  her  voice), 
till  even  the  Doctor's  dull  ears  were  full  of  the  clamor. 

"  Pansie,  darling,"  said  Dr.  Dolliver,  cheerily,  pat 
ting  her  brown  hair  with  his  tremulous  fingers,  "  thou 
hast  put  some  of  thine  own  friskiness  into  poor  old 
grandfather,  this  fine  morning  !  Dost  know,  child, 
that  he  came  near  breaking  his  neck  down-stairs  at 
the  sound  of  thy  voice  ?  What  wouldst  thou  have 
done  then,  little  Pansie  ?  " 

"  Kiss  poor  grandpapa  and  make  him  well !  "  an 
swered  the  child,  remembering  the  Doctor's  own  mode 
of  cure  in  similar  mishaps  to  herself.  "  It  shall  do 
poor  grandpapa  good  !  "  she  added,  putting  up  her 
mouth  to  apply  the  remedy. 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  2? 

"  Ah,  little  one,  thou  hast  greater  faith  in  thy  medi 
cines  than  ever  I  had  in  my  drugs,"  replied  the  patri 
arch,  with  a  giggle,  surprised  and  delighted  at  his  own 
readiness  of  response.  "  But  the  kiss  is  good  for  my 
feeble  old  heart,  Pansie,  though  it  might  do  little  to 
mend  a  broken  neck ;  so  give  grandpapa  another  dose, 
and  let  us  to  breakfast." 

In  this  merry  humor  they  sat  down  to  the  table, 
great  -  grandpapa  and  Pansie  side  by  side,  and  the 
kitten,  as  soon  appeared,  making  a  third  in  the  party. 
First,  she  showed  her  mottled  head  out  of  Pansie's  lap, 
delicately  sipping  milk  from  the  child's  basin  without 
rebuke  ;  then  she  took  post  on  the  old  gentleman's 
shoulder,  purring  like  a  spinning-wheel,  trying  her 
claws  in  the  wadding  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  still 
more  impressively  reminding  him  of  her  presence  by 
putting  out  a  paw  to  intercept  a  warmed-over  morsel  of 
yesterday's  chicken  on  its  way  to  the  Doctor's  mouth. 
After  skilfully  achieving  this  feat,  she  scrambled  down 
upon  the  breakfast-table  and  began  to  wash  her  face 
and  hands.  Evidently,  these  companions  were  all  three 
on  intimate  terms,  as  was  natural  enough,  since  a  great 
many  childish  impulses  were  softly  creeping  back  on 
the  simple  -  minded  old  man  ;  insomuch  that,  if  no 
worldly  necessities  nor  painful  infirmity  had  disturbed 
him,  his  remnant  of  life  might  have  been  as  cheaply 
and  cheerily  enjoyed  as  the  early  playtime  of  the  kitten 
and  the  child.  Old  Dr.  Dolliver  and  his  great-grand 
daughter  (a  ponderous  title,  which  seemed  quite  to 
overwhelm  the  tiny  figure  of  Pansie)  had  met  one  an 
other  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  life-circle  :  her  sun 
rise  served  him  for  a  sunset,  illuminating  his  locks  of 
silver  and  hers  of  golden  brown  with  a  homogeneous 
shimmer  of  twinkling  light 


24  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

Little  Pansie  was  the  one  earthly  creature  that  in- 
herited  a  drop  of  the  Dolliver  blood.  The  Doctor's 
only  child,  poor  Bessie's  offspring,  had  died  the  better 
part  of  a  hundred  years  before,  and  his  grandchildren, 
a  numerous  and  dimly  remembered  brood,  had  van 
ished  along  his  weary  track  in  their  youth,  maturity, 
or  incipient  age,  till,  hardly  knowing  how  it  had  all 
happened,  he  found  himself  tottering  onward  with  an 
infant's  small  fingers  in  his  nerveless  grasp.  So  mist 
ily  did  his  dead  progeny  come  and  go  in  the  patri 
arch's  decayed  recollection,  that  this  solitary  child 
represented  for  him  the  successive  babyhoods  of  the 
many  that  had  gone  before.  The  emotions  of  his  early 
paternity  came  back  to  him.  She  seemed  the  baby  of 
a  past  age  oftener  than  she  seemed  Pansie.  A  whole 
family  of  grand-aunts  (one  of  whom  had  perished  in 
her  cradle,  never  so  mature  as  Pansie  now,  another  in 
her  virgin  bloom,  another  in  autumnal  maidenhood, 
yellow  and  shrivelled,  with  vinegar  in  her  blood,  and 
still  another,  a  forlorn  widow,  whose  grief  outlasted 
even  its  vitality,  and  grew  to  be  merely  a  torpid  habit, 
and  was  saddest  then),  —  all  their  hitherto  forgotten 
features  peeped  through  the  face  of  the  great-grand 
child,  and  their  long-inaudible  voices  sobbed,  shouted, 
or  laughed,  in  her  familiar  tones.  But  it  often  hap 
pened  to  Dr.  Dolliver,  while  frolicking  amid  this 
throng  of  ghosts,  where  the  one  reality  looked  no  more 
vivid  than  its  shadowy  sisters,  —  it  often  happened 
that  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  a  sudden  perception 
of  what  a  sad  and  poverty-stricken  old  man  he  was, 
already  remote  from  his  own  generation,  and  bound  to 
stray  further  onward  as  the  sole  playmate  and  protec 
tor  of  a  child ! 

As  Dr.  Dolliver,  in  spite  of  his  advanced  epoch  of 


THE  DOLL1VER  ROMANCE.  25 

life,  is  likely  to  remain  a  considerable  time  longer 
upon  our  hands,  we  deem  it  expedient  to  give  a  brief 
sketch  of  his  position,  in  order  that  the  story  may  get 
onward  with  the  greater  freedom  when  he  rises  from 
the  breakfast-table.  Deeming  it  a  matter  of  courtesy, 
we  have  allowed  him  the  honorary  title  of  Doctor,  as 
did  all  his  towns-people  and  contemporaries,  except, 
perhaps,  one  or  two  formal  old  physicians,  stingy  of 
civil  phrases  and  over-jealous  of  their  own  professional 
dignity.  Nevertheless,  these  crusty  graduates  were 
technically  right  in  excluding  Dr.  Dolliver  from  their 
fraternity.  He  had  neve'-  .^ceived  the  degree  of  any 
medical  school,  nor  (save  it  might  be  for  the  cure  of 
a  toothache,  or  a  child's  rash,  or  a  svhitlow  on  a  seam 
stress's  finger,  or  some  such  trifling  malady)  had  he 
ever  been  even  a  practitioner  of  the  awful  science  with 
which  his  popular  designation  connected  him.  Our  old 
friend,  in  short,  even  at  his  highest  social  elevation, 
claimed  to  be  nothing  more  than  an  apothecary,  and, 
in  these  later  and  far  less  prosperous  days,  scarcely  so 
much.  Since  the  death  of  his  last  surviving  grandson 
(Pansie's  father,  whom  he  had  instructed  in  all  the 
mysteries  of  his  science,  and  who,  being  distinguished 
by  an  experimental  and  inventive  tendency,  was  gen 
erally  believed  to  have  poisoned  himself  with  an  in 
fallible  panacea  of  his  own  distillation),  —  since  that 
final  bereavement,  Dr.  Dolliver's  once  pretty  flourish 
ing  business  had  lamentably  declined.  After  a  few 
months  of  unavailing  struggle,  he  found  it  expedient 
to  take  down  the  Brazen  Serpent  from  the  position  to 
which  Dr.  S winnerton  had  originally  elevated  it,  in 
front  of  his  shop  in  the  main  street,  and  to  retire  to 
his  private  dwelling,  situated  in  a  by-lane  and  on  the 
edge  of  a  burial-ground. 


26  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

This  house,  as  well  as  the  Brazen  Serpent,  some  old 
medical  books,  and  a  drawer  full  of  manuscripts,  had 
come  to  him  by  the  legacy  of  Dr.  S  winner  ton.  The 
dreariness  of  the  locality  had  been  of  small  importance 
to  our  friend  in  his  young  manhood,  when  he  first 
led  his  fair  wife  over  the  threshold,  and  so  long  as 
neither  of  them  had  any  kinship  with  the  human  dust 
that  rose  into  little  hillocks,  and  still  kept  accumulat 
ing  beneath  their  window.  But,  too  soon  afterwards, 
when  poor  Bessie  herself  had  gone  early  to  rest  there, 
it  is  probable  that  an  influence  from  her  grave  may 
have  prematurely  calmed  and  depressed  her  widowed 
husband,  taking  away  much  of  the  energy  from  what 
should  have  been  the  most  active  portion  of  his  life. 
Thus  he  never  grew  rich.  His  thrifty  townsmen  used 
to  tell  him,  that,  in  any  other  man's  hands,  Dr.  Swin- 
nerton's  Brazen  Serpent  (meaning,  I  presume,  the  in 
herited  credit  and  good -will  of  that  old  worthy's 
trade)  would  need  but  ten  years'  time  to  transmute  its 
brass  into  gold.  In  Dr.  Dolliver's  keeping,  as  we  have 
seen,  the  inauspicious  symbol  lost  the  greater  part 
of  what  superficial  gilding  it  originally  had.  Matters 
had  not  mended  with  him  in  more  advanced  life,  after 
he  had  deposited  a  further  and  further  portion  of  his 
heart  and  its  affections  in  each  successive  one  of  a 
long  row  of  kindred  graves  ;  and  as  he  stood  over  the 
last  of  them,  holding  Pansie  by  the  hand  and  looking 
down  upon  the  coffin  of  his  grandson,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  old  man  wept,  partly  for  those  gone  before^ 
but  not  so  bitterly  as  for  the  little  one  that  stayed  be 
hind.  Why  had  not  God  taken  her  with  the  rest  ?  An$ 
then,  so  hopeless  as  he  was,  so  destitute  of  possibilities 
of  good,  his  weary  frame,  his  decrepit  bones,  his  dried, 
up  heart,  might  have  crumbled  into  dust  at  once,  an<7 


THE  DO L LIVER  ROMANCE.  27 

have  been  scattered  by  the  next  wind  over  all  the 
heaps  of  earth  that  were  akin  to  him. 

This  intensity  of  desolation,  however,  was  of  too 
positive  a  character  to  be  long  sustained  by  a  person 
of  Dr.  Dolliver's  original  gentleness  and  simplicity, 
and  now  so  completely  tamed  by  age  and  misfortune. 
Even  before  he  turned  away  from  the  grave,  he  grew 
conscious  of  a  slightly  cheering  and  invigorating  effect 
from  the  tight  grasp  of  the  child's  warm  little  hand, 
Feeble  as  he  was,  she  seemed  to  adopt  him  willingly 
for  her  protector.  And  the  Doctor  never  afterwards 
shrank  from  his  duty  nor  quailed  beneath  it,  but  bore 
himself  like  a  man,  striving,  amid  the  sloth  of  age  and 
the  breaking-up  of  intellect,  to  earn  the  competency 
which  he  had  failed  to  accumulate  even  in  his  most 
vigorous  days. 

To  the  extent  of  securing  a  present  subsistence  for 
Pansie  and  himself,  he  was  successful.  After  his  son's 
death,  when  the  Brazen  Serpent  fell  into  popular  dis 
repute,  a  small  share  of  tenacious  patronage  followed 
the  old  man  into  his  retirement.  In  his  prime,  he  had 
been  allowed  to  possess  more  skill  than  usually  fell  to 
the  share  of  a  Colonial  apothecary,  having  been  regu 
larly  apprenticed  to  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who,  throughout 
his  long  practice,  was  accustomed  personally  to  concoct 
the  medicines  which  he  prescribed  and  dispensed.  It 
was  believed,  indeed,  that  the  ancient  physician  had 
learned  the  art  at  the  world-famous  drug-manufactory 
of  Apothecary's  Hall,  in  London,  and,  as  some  people 
half-malignly  whispered,  had  perfected  himself  under 
masters  more  subtle  than  were  to  be  found  even  there. 
Unquestionably,  in  many  critical  cases  he  was  known 
to  have  employed  remedies  of  mysterious  composition 
and  dangerous  potency,  which,  in  less  skilful  hands, 


28  THE   DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

would  have  been  more  likely  to  kill  than  cure.  He 
would  willingly,  it  is  said,  have  taught  his  apprentice 
the  secrets  of  these  prescriptions,  but  the  latter,  be 
ing  of  a  timid  character  and  delicate  conscience,  had 
shrunk  from  acquaintance  with  them.  It  was  prob 
ably  as  the  result  of  the  same  scrupulosity  that  Dr. 
Dolliver  had  always  declined  to  enter  the  medical  pro 
fession,  in  which  his  old  instructor  had  set  him  such 
heroic  examples  of  adventurous  dealing  with  matters 
of  life  and  death.  Nevertheless,  the  aromatic  fra 
grance,  so  to  speak,  of  the  learned  Swinnerton's  repu 
tation,  had  clung  to  our  friend  through  life ;  and  there 
were  elaborate  preparations  in  the  pharmacopoeia  of 
that  day,  requiring  such  minute  skill  and  conscientious 
fidelity  in  the  concocter  that  the  physicians  were  still 
glad  to  confide  them  to  one  in  whom  these  qualities 
were  so  evident. 

Moreover,  the  grandmothers  of  the  community  were 
kind  to  him,  and  mindful  of  his  perfumes,  his  rose- 
water,  his  cosmetics,  tooth-powders,  pomanders,  and 
pomades,  the  scented  memory  of  which  lingered  about 
their  toilet-tables,  or  came  faintly  back  from  the  days 
when  they  were  beautiful.  Among  this  class  of  cus 
tomers  there  was  still  a  demand  for  certain  comfort 
able  little  nostrums  (delicately  sweet  and  pungent  to 
the  taste,  cheering  to  the  spirits,  and  fragrant  in  th/> 
breath),  the  proper  distillation  of  which  was  the  airi 
est  secret  that  the  mystic  Swinnerton  had  left  behind 
him.  And,  besides,  these  old  ladies  had  always  liked 
the  manners  of  Dr.  Dolliver,  and  used  to  speak  of  his 
gentle  courtesy  behind  the  counter  as  having  positively 
been  something  to  admire ;  though  of  later  years,  an 
unrefined,  and  almost  rustic  simplicity,  such  as  be 
longed  to  his  humble  ancestors,  appeared  to  hava 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  29 

taken  possession  of  him,  as  it  often  does  of  prettily 
mannered  men  in  their  late  decay. 

But  it  resulted  from  all  these  favorable  circum 
stances  that  the  Doctor's  marble  mortar,  though  worn 
with  long  service  and  considerably  damaged  by  a 
crack  that  pervaded  it,  continued  to  keep  up  an  occa 
sional  intimacy  with  the  pestle  ;  and  he  still  weighed 
drachms  and  scruples  in  his  delicate  scales,  though  it 
seemed  impossible,  dealing  with  such  minute  quanti 
ties,  that  his  tremulous  ringers  should  not  put  in  too 
little  or  too  much,  leaving  out  life  with  the  deficiency, 
or  spilling  in  death  with  the  surplus.  To  say  the 
truth,  his  stanchest  friends  were  beginning  to  think 
that  Dr.  Dolliver's  fits  of  absence  (when  his  mind  ap 
peared  absolutely  to  depart  from  him,  while  his  frail 
old  body  worked  on  mechanically)  rendered  him  not 
quite  trustworthy  without  a  close  supervision  of  his 
proceedings.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to  con vince 
the  aged  apothecary  of  the  necessity  for  such  vigil 
ance  ;  and  if  anything  could  stir  up  his  gentle  temper 
to  wrath,  or,  as  oftener  happened,  to  tears,  it  was  the 
attempt  (which  he  was  marvellously  quick  to  detect) 
thus  to  interfere  with  his  long-familiar  business. 

The  public,  meanwhile,  ceasing  to  regard  Dr.  Dol- 
liver  in  his  professional  aspect,  had  begun  to  take  an 
interest  in  him  as  perhaps  their  oldest  fellow-citizen. 
It  was  he  that  remembered  the  Great  Fire  and  the 
Great  Snow7,  and  that  had  been  a  grown-up  stripling 
at  the  terrible  epoch  of  Witch-Times,  and  a  child  just 
breeched  at  the  breaking  out  of  King  Philip's  Indian 
War.  He,  too,  in  his  school-boy  days,  had  received 
a  benediction  from  the  patriarchal  Governor  Brad- 
street,  and  thus  could  boast  (somewhat  as  Bishops  do 
of  their  unbroken  succession  from  the  Apostles)  of 


30  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

a  transmitted  blessing  from  the  whole  company  of 
sainted  Pilgrims,  among  whom  the  venerable  magis 
trate  had  been  an  honored  companion.  Viewing  their 
townsman  in  this  aspect,  the  people  revoked  the  cour 
teous  Doctorate  with  which  they  had  heretofore  dec 
orated  him,  and  now  knew  him  most  familiarly  as 
Grandsir  Dolliver.  His  white  head,  his  Puritan  band, 
his  threadbare  garb  (the  fashion  of  which  he  had 
ceased  to  change,  half  a  century  ago),  his  gold-headed 
staff,  that  had  been  Dr.  S  winner  ton's,  his  shrunken, 
frosty  figure,  and  its  feeble  movement,  —  all  these 
characteristics  had  a  wholeness  and  permanence  in 
the  public  recognition,  like  the  meeting-house  steeple 
or  the  town-pump.  All  the  younger  portion  of  the 
inhabitants  unconsciously  ascribed  a  sort  of  aged  im 
mortality  to  Grandsir  Dolliver's  infirm  and  reverend 
presence.  They  fancied  that  he  had  been  born  old 
.(at  least,  I  remember  entertaining  some  such  notions 
about  age-stricken  people,  when  I  myself  was  young), 
and  that  he  could  the  better  tolerate  his  aches  and  in- 
commodities,  his  dull  ears  and  dim  eyes,  his  remote 
ness  from  human  intercourse  within  the  crust  of  in 
durated  years,  the  cold  temperature  that  kept  him 
always  shivering  and  sad,  the  heavy  burden  that  in 
visibly  bent  down  his  shoulders,  —  that  all  these  in 
tolerable  things  might  bring  a  kind  of  enjoyment  to 
Grandsir  Dolliver,  as  the  lifelong  conditions  of  his 
peculiar  existence. 

But,  alas !  it  was  a  terrible  mistake.  This  weight 
of  years  had  a  perennial  novelty  for  the  poor  sufferer. 
He  never  grew  accustomed  to  it,  but,  long  as  he  had 
now  borne  the  fretful  torpor  of  his  waning  life,  and 
patient  as  he  seemed,  he  still  retained  an  inward  con 
sciousness  that  these  stiffened  shoulders,  these  quailing 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  31 

knees,  this  cloudiness  of  sight  and  brain,  this  confused 
forgetf ulness  of  men  and  affairs,  were  troublesome  ac 
cidents  that  did  not  really  belong  to  him.  He  possi 
bly  cherished  a  half-recognized  idea  that  they  might 
pass  away.  Youth,  however  eclipsed  for  a  season,  is 
undoubtedly  the  proper,  permanent,  and  genuine  con 
dition  of  man ;  and  if  we  look  closely  into  this  dreary 
delusion  of  growing  old,  we  shall  find  that  it  never  ab 
solutely  succeeds  in  laying  hold  of  our  innermost  con 
victions.  A  sombre  garment,  woven  of  life's  unreali 
ties,  has  muffled  us  from  our  true  self,  but  within  it 
smiles  the  young  man  whom  we  knew  ;  the  ashes  of 
many  perishable  things  have  fallen  upon  our  youthful 
fire,  but  beneath  them  lurk  the  seeds  of  inextinguish 
able  flame.  So  powerful  is  this  instinctive  faith,  that 
men  of  simple  modes  of  character  are  prone  to  ante 
date  its  consummation.  And  thus  it  happened  with 
poor  Grandsir  Dolliver,  who  often  awoke  from  an  old 
man's  fitful  sleep  with  a  sense  that  his  senile  predica 
ment  was  but  a  dream  of  the  past  night ;  and  hol>- 
bling  hastily  across  the  cold  floor  to  the  looking-glass, 
he  would  be  grievously  disappointed  at  beholding  the 
white  hair,  the  wrinkles  and  furrows,  the  ashen  visage 
and  bent  form,  the  melancholy  mask  of  Age,  in  which, 
as  he  now  remembered,  some  strange  and  sad  enchant 
ment  had  involved  him  for  years  gone  by ! 

To  other  eyes  than  his  own,  however,  the  shrivelled 
old  gentleman  looked  as  if  there  were  little  hope  of 
his  throwing  off  this  too  artfully  wrought  disguise, 
until,  at  no  distant  day,  his  stooping  figure  should  be 
straightened  out,  his  hoary  locks  be  smoothed  over  his 
brows,  and  his  much-enduring  bones  be  laid  safely 
away,  with  a  green  coverlet  spread  over  them,  beside 
his  Bessie,  who  doubtless  would  recognize  her  youthful 


82  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

companion  in  spite  of  his  ugly  garniture  of  decay. 
He  longed  to  be  gazed  at  by  the  loving  eyes  now 
closed  ;  he  shrank  from  the  hard  stare  of  them  that 
loved  him  not.  Walking  the  streets  seldom  and  re 
luctantly,  he  felt  a  dreary  impulse  to  elude  the  peo 
ple's  observation,  as  if  with  a  sense  that  he  had  gone 
irrevocably  out  of  fashion,  and  broken  his  connecting 
links  with  the  net-work  of  human  life  ;  or  else  it  was 
that  nightmare-feeling  which  we  sometimes  have  in 
dreams,  when  we  seem  to  find  ourselves  wandering 
through  a  crowded  avenue,  with  the  noonday  sun  upon 
us,  in  some  wild  extravagance  of  dress  or  nudity.  He 
was  conscious  of  estrangement  from  his  towns-people, 
but  did  not  always  know  how  nor  wherefore,  nor  why 
he  should  be  thus  groping  through  the  twilight  mist 
in  solitude.  If  they  spoke  loudly  to  him,  with  cheery 
voices,  the  greeting  translated  itself  faintly  and 
mournfully  to  his  ears  ;  if  they  shook  him  by  the 
hand,  it  was  as  if  a  thick,  insensible  glove  absorbed 
the  kindly  pressure  and  the  warmth.  When  little 
Pansie  was  the  companion  of  his  walk,  her  childish 
gayety  and  freedom  did  not  avail  to  bring  him  into 
closer  relationship  with  men,  but  seemed  to  follow  him 
into  that  region  of  indefinable  remoteness,  that  dismal 
Fairy-Land  of  aged  fancy,  into  which  old  Grandsir 
Dolliver  had  so  strangely  crept  away. 

Yet  there  were  moments,  as  many  persons  had  no 
ticed,  when  the  great-grandpapa  would  suddenly  take 
stronger  hues  of  life.  It  was  as  if  his  faded  figure 
had  been  colored  over  anew,  or  at  least,  as  he  and 
Pansie  moved  along  the  street,  as  if  a  sunbeam  had 
fallen  across  him,  instead  of  the  gray  gloom  of  an  in 
stant  before.  His  chilled  sensibilities  had  probably 
been  touched  and  quickened  by  the  warm  contiguity 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  33 

of  his  little  companion  through  the  medium  of  her 
hand,  as  it  stirred  within  his  own,  or  some  inflection 
of  her  voice  that  set  his  memory  ringing  and  chiming 
with  forgotten  sounds.  While  that  music  lasted,  the 
old  man  was  alive  and  happy.  And  there  were  sea 
sons,  it  might  be,  happier  than  even  these,  when  Pan- 
sie  had  been  kissed  and  put  to  bed,  and  Grandsir  Dol- 
liver  sat  by  his  fireside  gazing  in  among  the  massive 
coals,  and  absorbing  their  glow  into  those  cavernous 
abysses  with  which  all  men  communicate.  Hence 
come  angels  or  fiends  into  our  twilight  musings,  ac 
cording  as  we  may  have  peopled  them  in  by-gone  years. 
Over  our  friend's  face,  in  the  rosy  flicker  of  the  fire- 
gleam,  stole  an  expression  of  repose  and  perfect  trust 
that  made  him  as  beautiful  to  look  at,  in  his  high- 
backed  chair,  as  the  child  Pansie  on  her  pillow ;  and 
sometimes  the  spirits  that  were  watching  him  beheld 
a  calm  surprise  draw  slowly  over  his  features  and 
brighten  into  joy,  yet  not  so  vividly  as  to  break  his 
evening  quietude.  The  gate  of  heaven  had  been 
kindly  left  ajar,  that  this  forlorn  old  creature  might 
catch  a  glimpse  within.  All  the  night  afterwards,  he 
woidd  be  semi-conscious  of  an  intangible  bliss  diffused 
through  the  fitful  lapses  of  an  old  man's  slumber,  and 
would  awake,  at  early  dawn,  with  a  faint  thrilling  of 
the  heart-strings,  as  if  there  had  been  music  just  now 
wandering  over  them. 

VOL.  XI.  3 


ANOTHER   SCENE   FROM    THE   DOLLIVER    RO 
MANCE.1 

WE  may  now  suppose  Grrandsir  Dolliver  to  have  fin 
ished  his  breakfast,  with  a  better  appetite  and  sharper 
perception  of  the  qualities  of  his  food  than  he  has  gen 
erally  felt  of  late  years,  whether  it  were  due  to  old 
Martha's  cookery  or  to  the  cordial  of  the  night  before. 
Little  Pansie  had  also  made  an  end  of  her  bread  and 
milk  with  entire  satisfaction,  and  afterwards  nibbled 
a  crust,  greatly  enjoying  its  resistance  to  her  little 
white  teeth. 

How  this  child  came  by  the  odd  name  of  Pansie, 
and  whether  it  was  really  her  baptismal  name,  I  have 
not  ascertained.  More  probably  it  was  one  of  those 
pet  appellations  that  grow  out  of  a  child's  character, 
or  out  of  some  keen  thrill  of  affection  in  the  parents, 
an  unsought -for  and  unconscious  felicity,  a  kind  of 
revelation,  teaching  them  the  true  name  by  which  the 
child's  guardian  angel  would  know  it,  —  a  name  with 
playfulness  and  love  in  it,  that  we  often  observe  to 
supersede,  in  the  practice  of  those  who  love  the  child 
best,  the  name  that  they  carefully  selected,  and  caused 
the  clergyman  to  plaster  indelibly  on  the  poor  little 
forehead  at  the  font,  —  the  love-name,  whereby,  if  the 
child  lives,  the  parents  know  it  in  their  hearts,  or  by 
which,  if  it  dies,  God  seems  to  have  called  it  away, 
leaving  the  sound  lingering  faintly  and  sweetly  through 

1  This  scene  was  not  revised  by  the  author,  but  is  printed  from  his 
first  draught. 


THE   DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  35 

the  house.  In  Pansie's  case,  it  may  have  been  a  cer 
tain  pensiveness  which  was  sometimes  seen  under  her 
childish  frolic,  and  so  translated  itself  into  French 
(pensee),  her  mother  having  been  of  Acadian  kin ; 
or,  quite  as  probably,  it  alluded  merely  to  the  color  of 
her  eyes,  which,  in  some  lights,  were  very  like  the 
dark  petals  of  a  tuft  of  pansies  in  the  Doctor's  garden. 
It  might  well  be,  indeed,  on  account  of  the  suggested 
pensiveness  ;  for  the  child's  gayety  had  no  example  to 
sustain  it,  no  sympathy  of  other  children  or  grown  peo 
ple,  —  and  her  melancholy,  had  it  been  so  dark  a  feel 
ing,  was  but  the  shadow  of  the  house,  and  of  the  old 
man.  If  brighter  sunshine  came,  she  would  brighten 
with  it.  This  morning,  surely,  as  the  three  compan 
ions,  Pansie,  puss,  and  Grandsir  Dolliver,  emerged 
from  the  shadow  of  the  house  into  the  small  adjoin 
ing  enclosure,  they  seemed  all  frolicsome  alike. 

The  Doctor,  however,  was  intent  over  something 
that  had  reference  to  his  lifelong  business  of  drugs. 
This  little  spot  was  the  place  where  he  was  wont  to 
cultivate  a  variety  of  herbs  supposed  to  be  endowed 
with  medicinal  virtue.  Some  of  them  had  been  long 
known  in  the  pharmacopoeia  of  the  Old  \Vorld  :  and 
others,  in  the  early  days  of  the  country,  had  been 
adopted  by  the  first  settlers  from  the  Indian  medicine 
men,  though  with  fear  and  even  contrition,  because 
these  wild  doctors  were  supposed  to  draw  their  phar- 
maeeutic  knowledge  from  no  gracious  source,  the  Black 
Man  himself  being  the  principal  professor  in  their 
medical  school.  From  his  own  experience,  however, 
Dr.  Dolliver  had  long  since  doubted,  though  he  was 
not  bold  enough  quite  to  come  to  the  conclusion,  that 
Indian  shrubs,  and  the  remedies  prepared  from  them, 
tvere  much  less  perilous  than  those  so  freely  used  ia 


36  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

European  practice,  and  singularly  apt  to  be  followed 
by  results  quite  as  propitious.  Into  such  heterodoxy 
our  friend  was  the  more  liable  to  fall,  because  it  had 
been  taught  him  early  in  life  by  his  old  master,  Dr. 
Swinnerton,  who,  at  those  not  infrequent  times  when 
he  indulged  a  certain  unhappy  predilection  for  strong 
waters,  had  been  accustomed  to  inveigh  in  terms  of 
the  most  cynical  contempt  and  coarsest  ridicule  against 
the  practice  by  which  he  lived,  and,  as  he  affirmed, 
inflicted  death  on  his  fellow -men.  Our  old  apothe 
cary,  though  too  loyal  to  the  learned  profession  with 
which  he  was  connected  fully  to  believe  this  bitter 
judgment,  even  when  pronounced  by  his  revered  mas 
ter,  was  still  so  far  influenced  that  his  conscience  was 
possibly  a  little  easier  when  making  a  preparation 
from  forest  herbs  and  roots  than  in  the  concoction  of 
half  a  score  of  nauseous  poisons  into  a  single  elaborate 
drug,  as  the  fashion  of  that  clay  was. 

But  there  were  shrubs  in  the  garden  of  which  he 
had  never  ventured  to  make  a  medical  use,  nor,  indeed, 
did  he  know  their  virtue,  although  from  year  to  year 
he  had  tended  and  fertilized,  weeded  and  pruned  them, 
with  something  like  religious  care.  They  were  of  the 
rarest  character,  and  had  been  planted  by  the  learned 
and  famous  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who,  on  his  death-bed, 
when  he  left  his  dwelling  and  all  his  abstruse  manu 
scripts  to  his  favorite  pupil,  had  particularly  directed 
his  attention  to  this  row  of  shrubs.  They  had  been 
collected  by  himself  from  remote  countries,  and  had 
the  poignancy  of  torrid  climes  in  them ;  and  he  told 
him,  that,  properly  used,  they  would  be  worth  all  the 
rest  of  the  legacy  a  hundred-fold.  As  the  apothecary, 
however,  found  the  manuscripts,  in  which  he  conjec 
tured  there  was  a  treatise  on  the  subject  of  these 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  37 

shrubs,  mostly  illegible,  and  quite  beyond  his  compre 
hension  in  such  passages  as  he  succeeded  in  puzzling 
out  (partly,  perhaps,  owing  to  his  very  imperfect 
knowledge  of  Latin,  in  which  language  they  were  writ 
ten),  he  had  never  derived  from  them  any  of  the  prom 
ised  benefit.  And,  to  say  the  truth,  remembering  that 
Dr.  Swinnerton  himself  never  appeared  to  triturate  cr 
decoct  or  do  anything  else  with  the  mysterious  herbs, 
our  old  friend  was  inclined  to  imagine  the  weighty 
commendation  of  their  virtues  to  have  been  the  idly 
solemn  utterance  of  mental  aberration  at  the  hour  of 
death.  So,  with  the  integrity  that  belonged  to  his 
character,  he  had  nurtured  them  as  tenderly  as  was 
possible  in  the  ungenial  climate  and  soil  of  New  Eng 
land,  putting  some  of  them  into  pots  for  the  winter ; 
but  they  had  rather  dwindled  than  flourished,  and  he 
had  reaped  no  harvests  from  them,  nor  observed  them 
with  any  degree  of  scientific  interest. 

His  grandson,  however,  while  yet  a  school-boy,  had 
listened  to  the  old  man's  legend  of  the  miraculous  vir 
tues  of  these  plants  ;  and  it  took  so  firm  a  hold  of  his 
mind,  that  the  row  of  outlandish  vegetables  seemed 
rooted  in  it,  and  certainly  flourished  there  with  richer 
luxuriance  than  in  the  soil  where  they  actually  grew. 
The  story,  acting  thus  early  upon  his  imagination,  may 
be  said  to  have  influenced  his  brief  career  in  life,  and, 
perchance,  brought  about  its  early  close.  The  young 
man,  in  the  opinion  of  competent  judges,  was  endowed 
with  remarkable  abilities,  and  according  to  the  rumor 
of  the  people  had  wonderful  gifts,  which  were  proved 
by  the  cures  he  had  wrought  with  remedies  of  his  own 
invention.  His  talents  lay  in  the  direction  of  scientific 
analysis  and  inventive  combination  of  chemical  pow 
ers.  While  under  the  pupilage  of  his  grandfather,  )u» 


38  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

progress  had  rapidly  gone  quite  beyond  his  instructor's 
hope,  —  leaving  him  even  to  tremble  at  the  audacity 
with  which  he  overturned  and  invented  theories,  and  to 
wonder  at  the  depth  at  which  he  wrought  beneath  the 
superficialness  and  mock-mystery  of  the  medical  sci 
ence  of  those  days,  like  a  miner  sinking  his  shaft  and 
running  a  hideous  peril  of  the  earth  caving  in  above 
him.  Especially  did  he  devote  himself  to  these  plants ; 
and  under  his  care  they  had  thriven  beyond  all  former 
precedent,  bursting  into  luxuriance  of  bloom,  and  most 
of  them  bearing  beautiful  flowers,  which,  however,  in 
two  or  three  instances,  had  the  sort  of  natural  repul- 
siveness  that  the  serpent  has  in  its  beauty,  compelled 
against  its  will,  as  it  were,  to  warn  the  beholder  of  an 
unrevealed  danger.  The  young  man  had  long  ago,  it 
must  be  added,  demanded  of  his  grandfather  the  doc 
uments  included  in  the  legacy  of  Professor  Swinner- 
ton,  and  had  spent  days  and  nights  upon  them,  grow 
ing  pale  over  their  mystic  lore,  which  seemed  the  fruit 
not  merely  of  the  Professor's  own  labors,  but  of  those 
of  more  ancient  sages  than  he  ;  and  often  a  whole  vol 
ume  seemed  to  be  compressed  within  the  limits  of  a 
few  lines  of  crabbed  manuscript,  judging  from  the 
time  which  it  cost  even  the  quick-minded  student  to 
decipher  them. 

Meantime  these  abstruse  investigations  had  not 
wrought  such  disastrous  effects  as  might  have  been 
feared,  in  causing  Edward  Dolliver  to  neglect  the 
humble  trade,  the  conduct  of  which  his  grandfather 
had  now  relinquished  almost  entirely  into  his  hands. 
On  the  contrary,  with  the  mere  side  results  of  his 
study,  or  what  may  be  called  the  chips  and  shavings 
of  his  real  work,  he  created  a  prosperity  quite  beyond 
anything  that  his  simple-minded  predecessor  had  ever 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  39 

hoped  for,  even  at  the  most  sanguine  epoch  of  his  life. 
The  young  man's  adventurous  endowments  were  mirac 
ulously  alive,  and  connecting  themselves  with  his  re 
markable  ability  for  solid  research,  and  perhaps  his 
conscience  being  as  yet  imperfectly  developed  (as  it 
sometimes  lies  dormant  in  the  young),  he  spared  not 
to  produce  compounds  which,  if  the  names  were  any* 
wise  to  be  trusted,  would  supersede  all  other  remedies, 
and  speedily  render  any  medicine  a  needless  thing, 
making  the  trade  of  apothecary  an  untenable  one,  and 
the  title  of  Doctor  obsolete.  Whether  there  was  real 
efficacy  in  these  nostrums,  and  whether  their  author 
himself  had  faith  in  them,  is  more '  than  can  safely  be 
said ;  but,  at  all  events,  the  public  believed  in  them, 
and  thronged  to  the  old  and  dim  sign  of  the  Brazen 
Serpent,  which,  though  hitherto  familiar  to  them  and 
their  forefathers,  now  seemed  to  shine  with  auspicious 
lustre,  as  if  its  old  Scriptural  virtues  were  renewed. 
If  any  faith  was  to  be  put  in  human  testimony,  many 
marvellous  cures  were  really  performed,  the  fame  of 
which  spread  far  and  wide,  and  caused  demands  for 
these  medicines  to  come  in  from  places  far  beyond  the 
precincts  of  the  little  town.  Our  old  apothecary,  now 
degraded  by  the  overshadowing  influence  of  his  grand 
son's  character  to  a  position  not  much  above  that  of  a 
shop-boy,  stood  behind  the  counter  with  a  face  sad  and 
distrustful,  and  yet  with  an  odd  kind  of  fitful  excite 
ment  in  it,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  enjoy  this  new 
prosperity,  had  he  dared.  Then  his  venerable  figure 
was  to  be  seen  dispensing  these  questionable  com 
pounds  by  the  single  bottle  and  by  the  dozen,  wrong 
ing  his  simple  conscience  as  he  dealt  out  what  he 
feared  was  trash  or  worse,  shrinking  from  the  reproach 
ful  eyes  of  every  ancient  physician  who  might  chance 


40  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

to  be  passing  by,  but  withal  examining  closely  the  sil 
ver,  or  the  New  England  coarsely  printed  bills,  which 
he  took  in  payment,  as  if  apprehensive  that  the  delu 
sive  character  of  the  commodity  which  he  sold  might 
be  balanced  by  equal  counterfeiting  in  the  money  re 
ceived,  or  as  if  his  faith  in  all  things  were  shaken. 

Is  it  not  possible  that  this  gifted  young  man  had  in- 
deed  found  out  those  remedies  which  Nature  has  pro 
vided  and  laid  away  for  the  cure  of  every  ill  ? 

The  disastrous  termination  of  the  most  brilliant  epoch 
that  ever  came  to  the  Brazen  Serpent  must  be  told  in 
a  few  words.  One  night,  Edward  Dolliver's  young 
wife  awoke,  and,  seeing  the  gray  dawn  creeping  into 
the  chamber,  while  her  husband,  it  should  seem,  was 
still  engaged  in  his  laboratory,  arose  in  her  night 
dress,  and  went  to  the  door  of  the  room  to  put  in  her 
gentle  remonstrance  against  such  labor.  There  she 
found  him  dead,  —  sunk  down  out  of  his  chair  upon 
the  hearth,  where  were  some  ashes,  apparently  of  burnt 
manuscripts,  which  appeared  to  comprise  most  of  those 
included  in  Dr.  Swinnerton's  legacy,  though  one  or 
two  had  fallen  near  the  heap,  and  lay  merely  scorched 
beside  it.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  thrown  them  into 
the  fire,  under  a  sudden  impulse,  in  a  great  hurry  and 
passion.  It  may  be  that  he  had  come  to  the  percep 
tion  of  something  fatally  false  and  deceptive  in  the 
successes  which  he  had  appeared  to  win,  and  was  too 
proud  and  too  conscientious  to  survive  it.  Doctors 
were  called  in,  but  had  no  power  to  revive  him.  An 
inquest  was  held,  at  which  the  jury,  under  the  instruc 
tion,  perhaps,  of  those  same  revengeful  doctors,  ex 
pressed  the  opinion  that  the  poor  young  man,  being 
given  to  strange  contrivances  with  poisonous  drugs, 
had  died  by  incautiously  tasting  them  himself.  This 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  41 

verdict,  and  the  terrible  event  itself,  at  once  deprived 
the  medicines  of  all  their  popularity  ;  and  the  poor  old 
apothecary  was  no  longer  under  any  necessity  of  dis 
turbing  his  conscience  by  selling  them.  They  at  once 
lost  their  repute,  and  ceased  to  be  in  any  demand.  In 
the  few  instances  in  which  they  were  tried  the  experi 
ment  was  followed  by  no  good  results ;  and  even  those 
individuals  who  had  fancied  themselves  cured,  and  had 
been  loudest  in  spreading  the  praises  of  these  benefi 
cent  compounds,  now,  as  if  for  the  utter  demolition 
of  the  poor  youth's  credit,  suffered  under  a  recurrence 
of  the  worst  symptoms,  and,  in  more  than  one  case, 
perished  miserably :  insomuch  (for  the  days  of  witch 
craft  were  still  within  the  memory  of  living  men  and 
women)  it  was  the  general  opinion  that  Satan  had 
been  personally  concerned  in  this  affliction,  and  that 
the  Brazen  Serpent,  so  long  honored  among  them,  was 
really  the  type  of  his  subtle  malevolence  and  perfect 
iniquity.  It  was  rumored  even  that  all  preparations 
that  came  from  the  shop  were  harmful:  that  teeth 
decayed  that  had  been  made  pearly  white  by  the  use 
of  the  young  chemist's  dentifrice ;  that  cheeks  were 
freckled  that  had  been  changed  to  damask  roses  by 
his  cosmetics ;  that  hair  turned  gray  or  fell  off  that 
had  become  black,  glossy,  and  luxuriant  from  the  ap 
plication  of  his  mixtures ;  that  breath  which  his  drugs 
had  sweetened  had  now  a  sulphurous  smell.  Moreover, 
all  the  money  heretofore  amassed  by  the  sale  of  them 
had  been  exhausted  by  Edward  Dolliver  in  his  lavish 
expenditure  for  the  processes  of  his  study ;  and  nothing 
was  left  for  Pansie,  except  a  few  valueless  and  unsal 
able  bottles  of  medicine,  and  one  or  two  others,  per 
haps  more  recondite  than  their  inventor  had  seen  fit 
to  offer  to  the  public.  Little  Pansie's  mother  lived 


42  THE  DOLL  I VE  It  ROMANCE. 

but  a  short  time  after  the  shock  of  the  terrible  catas 
trophe  ;  and,  as  we  began  our  story  with  saying,  she 
was  left  with  no  better  guardianship  or  support  than 
might  be  found  in  the  efforts  of  a  long  superannuated 
man. 

Nothing  short  of  the  simplicity,  integrity,  and  piety 
of  Grandsir  Dolliver's  character,  known  and  acknowl 
edged  as  far  back  as  the  oldest  inhabitants  remem 
bered  anything,  and  inevitably  discoverable  by  the 
dullest  and  most  prejudiced  observers,  in  all  its  nat 
ural  manifestations,  could  have  protected  him  in  still 
creeping  about  the  streets.  So  far  as  he  was  person 
ally  concerned,  however,  all  bitterness  and  suspicion 
had  speedily  passed  away  ;  and  there  remained  still 
the  careless  and  neglectful  good-will,  and  the  prescrip 
tive  reverence,  not  altogether  reverential,  which  the 
world  heedlessly  awards  to  the  unfortunate  individual 
who  outlives  his  generation. 

And  now  that  we  have  shown  the  reader  sufficiently, 
or  at  least  to  the  best  of  our  knowledge,  and  perhaps 
at  tedious  length,  what  was  the  present  position  of 
Grandsir  Dolliver,  we  ma^  let  our  story  pass  onward, 
though  at  such  a  pace  as  suits  the  feeble  gait  of  an 
old  man. 

The  peculiarly  brisk  sensation  of  this  morning,  to 
which  we  have  more  than  once  alluded,  enabled  the 
Doctor  to  toil  pretty  vigorously  at  his  medicinal  herbs, 
—  his  catnip,  his  vervain,  and  the  like  ;  but  he  did 
not  turn  his  attention  to  the  row  of  mystic  plants, 
with  which  so  much  of  trouble  and  sorrow  either  was, 
or  appeared  to  be,  connected.  In  truth,  his  old  soul 
was  sick  of  them,  and  their  very  fragrance,  which  the 
warm  sunshine  made  strongly  perceptible,  was  odious 
to  his  nostrils.  But  the  spicy,  homelike  scent  of  hia 


THE  DOL LIVER   ROMANCE.  43 

other  herbs,  the  English  simples,  was  grateful  to  him, 
and  so  was  the  earth-smell,  as  he  turned  up  the  soil 
about  their  roots,  and  eagerly  snuffed  it  in.  Little 
Pansie,  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps  scandalized  at 
great-grandpapa's  neglect  of  the  prettiest  plants  in  his 
garden,  resolved  to  do  her  small  utmost  towards  bal 
ancing  his  injustice ;  so  with  an  old  shingle,  fallen  from 
the  roof,  which  she  had  appropriated  as  her  agricul 
tural  tool,  she  began  to  dig  about  them,  pulling  up 
the  weeds,  as  she  saw  grandpapa  doing.  The  kitten, 
too,  with  a  look  of  elfish  sagacity,  lent  her  assistance, 
plying  her  paws  with  vast  haste  and  efficiency  at  the 
roots  of  one  of  the  shrubs.  This  particular  one  was 
much  smaller  than  the  rest,  perhaps  because  it  was  a 
native  of  the  torrid  zone,  and  required  greater  care 
than  the  others  to  make  it  flourish ;  so  that,  shrivelled, 
cankered,  and  scarcely  showing  a  green  leaf,  both 
Pansie  and  the  kitten  probably  mistook  it  for  a  weed. 
After  their  joint  efforts  had  made  a  pretty  big  trench 
about  it,  the  little  girl  seized  the  shrub  with  both 
hands,  bestriding  it  with  her  plump  little  legs,  and 
giving  so  vigorous  a  pull,  that,  long  accustomed  to  be 
transplanted  annually,  it  came  up  by  the  roots,  and 
little  Pansie  came  down  in  a  sitting  posture,  making  a 
broad  impress  on  the  soft  earth.  tfc  See,  see,  Doctor  !  " 
cries  Pansie,  comically  enough  giving  him  his  title 
of  courtesy,  — "  look,  grandpapa,  the  big,  naughty 
weed!" 

Now  the  Doctor  had  at  once  a  peculiar  dread  and  a 
peculiar  value  for  this  identical  shrub,  both  because 
his  grandson's  investigations  had  been  applied  more 
ardently  to  it  than  to  all  the  rest,  and  because  it  was 
associated  in  his  mind  with  an  ancient  and  sad  recol- 
lectiono  For  he  had  never  forgotten  that  his  wife,  the 


44  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

early  lost,  had  once  taken  a  fancy  to  wear  its  flowers, 
day  after  day,  through  the  whole  season  of  their  bloom, 
in  her  bosom,  where  they  glowed  like  a  gem,  and 
deepened  her  somewhat  pallid  beauty  with  a  richness 
never  before  seen  in  it.  At  least  such  was  the  effect 
which  this  tropical  flower  imparted  to  the  beloved 
form  in  his  memory,  and  thus  it  somehow  both  bright 
ened  and  wronged  her.  This  had  happened  not  long 
before  her  death ;  and  whenever,  in  the  subsequent 
years,  this  plant  had  brought  its  annual  flower,  it  had 
proved  a  kind  of  talisman  to  bring  up  the  image  of 
Bessie,  radiant  with  this  glow  that  did  not  really  be 
long  to  her  naturally  passive  beauty,  quickly  inter 
changing  with  another  image  ^f  her  form,  with  the 
snow  of  death  on  cheek  and  forehead.  This  reminis 
cence  had  remained  among  the  things  of  which  the 
Doctor  was  always  conscious,  but  had  never  breathed 
a  word,  through  the  whole  of  his  long  life,  —  a  sprig 
of  sensibility  that  perhaps  helped  to  keep  him  tenderer 
and  purer  than  other  men,  who  entertain  no  such 
follies.  And  the  sight  of  the  shrub  often  brought 
back  the  faint,  golden  gleam  of  her  hair,  as  if  her 
spirit  were  in  the  sunlights  of  the  garden,  quivering 
into  view  and  out  of  it.  And  therefore,  when  he  saw 
what  Pansie  had  done,  he  sent  forth  a  strange,  inarti 
culate,  hoarse,  tremulous  exclamation,  a  sort  of  aged 
and  decrepit  cry  of  mingled  emotion.  "  Naughty 
Pansie,  to  pull  up  grandpapa's  flower ! "  said  he,  as 
soon  as  he  could  speak.  "  Poison,  Pansie,  poison  ! 
Fling  it  away,  child  I  " 

And  dropping  his  spade,  the  old  gentleman  scram 
bled  towards  the  little  girl  as  quickly  as  his  rusty 
joints  would  let  him,  —  while  Pansie,  as  apprehensive 
and  quick  of  motion  as  a  fawn,  started  up  with  a 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  45 

shriek  of  mirth  and  fear  to  escape  him.  It  so  hap 
pened  that  the  garden-gate  was  ajar  ;  and  a  puff  of 
wind  blowing  it  wide  open,  she  escaped  through  this 
fortuitous  avenue,  followed  by  great  -  grandpapa  and 
the  kitten. 

"  Stop,  naughty  Pansie,  stop  !  "  shouted  our  old 
friend.  "  You  will  tumble  into  the  grave  !  "  The  kit 
ten,  with  the  singular  sensitiveness  that  seems  to  affect 
it  at  every  kind  of  excitement,  was  now  on  her  back. 

And,  indeed,  this  portentous  warning  was  better 
grounded  and  had  a  more  literal  meaning  than  might 
be  supposed ;  for  the  swinging  gate  communicated 
with  the  burial-ground,  and  almost  directly  in  little 
Pansie's  track  there  was  a  newly  dug  grave,  ready  to 
receive  its  tenant  that  afternoon.  Pansie,  however, 
fled  onward  with  outstretched  arms,  half  in  fear,  half 
in  fun,  plying  her  round  little  legs  with  wonderful 
promptitude,  as  if  to  escape  Time  or  Death,  in  the 
person  of  Grandsir  Dolliver,  and  happily  avoiding  the 
ominous  pitfall  that  lies  in  every  person's  path,  till, 
hearing  a  groan  from  her  pursuer,  she  looked  over  her 
shoulder,  and  saw  that  poor  grandpapa  had  stumbled 
over  one  of  the  many  hillocks.  She  then  suddenly 
wrinkled  up  her  little  visage,  and  sent  forth  a  full- 
breathed  roar  of  sympathy  and  alarm. 

"  Grandpapa  has  broken  his  neck  now!  "  cried  little 
Pansie,  amid  her  sobs. 

"  Kiss  grandpapa,  and  make  it  well,  then,"  said 
the  old  gentleman,  recollecting  her  remedy,  and 
scrambling  up  more  readily  than  could  be  expected. 
u  Well,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  a  hairs-breadth 
more,  and  I  should  have  been  tumbled  into  yonder 
grave.  Poor  little  Pausie  !  what  wouldst  thou  have 
done  then  ?  " 


46  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

"  Make  the  grass  grow  over  grandpapa,"  answered 
Pansie,  laughing  up  in  his  face. 

"  Poh,  poh,  child,  that  is  not  a  pretty  thing  to  say," 
said  grandpapa,  pettishly  and  disappointed,  as  people 
are  apt  to  be  when  they  try  to  calculate  on  the  fitful 
sympathies  of  childhood.  "  Come,  you  must  go  in  to 
old  Martha  now." 

The  poor  old  gentleman  was  in  the  more  haste  to 
leave  the  spot  because  he  found  himself  standing  right 
in  front  of  his  own  peculiar  row  of  gravestones,  con 
sisting  of  eight  or  nine  slabs  of  slate,  adorned  with 
carved  borders  rather  rudely  cut,  and  the  earliest  one, 
that  of  his  Bessie,  bending  aslant,  because  the  frost  of 
so  many  winters  had  slowly  undermined  it.  Over  one 
grave  of  the  row,  that  of  his  gifted  grandson,  there 
was  no  memorial.  He  felt  a  strange  repugnance, 
stronger  than  he  had  ever  felt  before,  to  linger  by 
these  graves,  and  had  none  of  the  tender  sorrow,  min 
gled  with  high  and  tender  hopes,  that  had  sometimes 
made  it  seem  good  to  him  to  be  there.  Such  moods, 
perhaps,  often  come  to  the  aged,  when  the  hardened 
earth-crust  over  their  souls  shuts  them  out  from  spir 
itual  influences. 

Taking  the  child  by  the  hand,  —  her  little  efferves 
cence  of  infantile  fun  having  passed  into  a  downcast 
humor,  though  not  well  knowing  as  yet  what  a  dusky 
cloud  of  disheartening  fancies  arose  from  these  green 
hillocks,  —  he  went  heavily  toward  the  garden-gate. 
Close  to  its  threshold,  so  that  one  who  was  issuing 
forth  or  entering  must  needs  step  upon  it  or  over  it, 
lay  a  small  flat  stone,  deeply  imbedded  in  the  ground, 
and  partly  covered  with  grass,  inscribed  with  the  name 
of  "  Dr.  John  Swinnerton,  Physician." 

"Ay,"   said  the  old  man,  as  the  well-remembered 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  47 

figure  of  his  ancient  instructor  seemed  to  rise  before 
him  in  his  grave-apparel,  with  beard  and  gold-headed 
cane,  black  velvet  doublet  and  cloak,  u  here  lies  a  man 
who,  as  people  have  thought,  had  it  in  his  power  to 
avoid  the  grave !  He  had  no  little  grandchild  to  tease 
him.  He  had  the  choice  to  die,  and  chose  it." 

So  the  old  gentleman  led  Pansie  over  the  stone,  and 
carefully  closed  the  gate ;  and,  as  it  happened,  he  for 
got  the  uprooted  shrub,  which  Pansie,  as  she  ran,  had 
flung  away,  and  which  had  fallen  into  the  open  grave ; 
and  when  the  funeral  came  that  afternoon,  the  coffin 
was  let  down  upon  it,  so  that  its  bright,  inauspicious 
flower  never  bloomed  again. 


ANOTHER   FRAGMENT   OF   THE   DOLLIVER 
ROMANCE. 

"  BE  secret !  "  and  he  kept  his  stern  eye  fixed  upon 
him,  as  the  coach  began  to  move. 

"  Be  secret !  "  repeated  the  apothecary.  "  I  know 
not  any  secret  that  he  has  confided  to  me  thus  far,  and 
as  for  his  nonsense  (as  I  will  be  bold  to  style  it  now 
he  is  gone)  about  a  medicine  of  long  life,  it  is  a  thing 
I  forget  in  spite  of  myself,  so  very  empty  and  trashy 
it  is.  I  wonder,  by  the  by,  that  it  never  came  into 
my  head  to  give  the  Colonel  a  dose  of  the  cordial 
whereof  I  partook  last  night.  I  have  no  faith  that 
it  is  a  valuable  medicine  —  little  or  none  —  and  yet 
there  has  been  an  unwonted  briskness  in  me  all  the 
morning." 

Then  a  simple  joy  broke  over  his  face  —  a  flicker 
ing  sunbeam  among  his  wrinkles  —  as  he  heard  the 
laughter  of  the  little  girl,  who  was  running  rampant 
with  a  kitten  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Pansie !  Pansie  !  "  cackled  he,  "  grandpapa  has 
sent  away  the  ugly  man  now.  Come,  let  us  have  a 
frolic  in  the  garden." 

And  he  whispered  to  himself  again,  "  That  is  a  cor 
dial  yonder,  and  I  will  take  it  according  to  the  pre 
scription,  knowing  all  the  ingredients."  Then,  after 
a  moment's  thought,  he  added,  "  All,  save  one." 

So,  as  he  had  declared  to  himself  his  intention,  that 
when  little  Pansie  had  long  been  asleep,  and  his 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  49 

small  household  was  in  bed,  and  most  of  the  quiet,  old- 
fashioned  townsfolk  likewise,  this  good  apothecary 
went  into  his  laboratory,  and  took  out  of  a  cupboard 
in  the  wall  a  certain  ancient-looking  bottle,  which  was 
cased  over  with  a  net-work  of  what  seemed  to  be  woven 
silver,  like  the  wicker-woven  bottles  of  our  days.  He 
had  previously  provided  a  goblet  of  pure  water.  Be 
fore  opening  the  bottle,  however,  he  seemed  to  hesi 
tate,  and  pondered  and  babbled  to  himself  ;  having 
long  since  come  to  that  period  of  life  when  the  bodily 
frame,  having  lost  much  of  its  value,  is  more  tenderly 
cared  for  than  when  it  was  a  perfect  and  inestimable 
machine. 

"I  triturated,  I  infused,  I  distilled  it  myself  in 
these  very  rooms,  and  know  it  —  know  it  all  —  all 
the  ingredients,  save  one.  They  are  common  things 
enough  —  comfortable  things  —  some  of  them  a  little 
queer — one  or  two  that  folks  have  a  prejudice  against 
—  and  then  there  is  that  one  thing  that  I  don't  know. 
It  is  foolish  in  me  to  be  dallying  with  such  a  mess, 
which  I  thought  was  a  piece  of  quackery,  while  that 
strange  visitor  bade  me  do  it,  —  and  yet,  what  a 
strength  has  come  from  it !  He  said  it  was  a  rare 
cordial,  and,  methinks,  it  has  brightened  up  my  weary 
life  all  day,  so  that  Pansie  has  found  me  the  fitter 
playmate.  And  then  the  dose  —  it  is  so  absurdly 
small !  I  will  try  it  again." 

He  took  the  silver  stopple  from  the  bottle,  and  with 
a  practised  hand,  tremulous  as  it  was  with  age,  so 
that  one  would  have  thought  it  must  have  shaken 
the  liquor  into  a  perfect  shower  of  misapplied  drops, 
he  dropped  —  I  have  heard  it  said  —  only  one  single 
drop  into  the  goblet  of  water.  It  fell  into  it  with  a 
dazzling  brightness,  like  a  spark  of  ruby  flame,  and 


50  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

subtly  diffusing  itself  through  the  whole  body  of  water, 
turned  it  to  a  rosy  hue  of  great  brilliancy.  He  held  it 
up  between  his  eyes  and  the  light,  and  seemed  to  ad 
mire  and  wonder  at  it. 

"  It  is  very  odd,"  said  he,  "  that  such  a  pure,  bright 
liquor  should  have  come  out  of  a  parcel  of  weeds  that 
mingled  their  juices  here.  The  thing  is  a  folly,  —  it  is 
one  of  those  compositions  in  which  the  chemists  —  the 
cabalists,  perhaps  —  used  to  combine  what  they  thought 
the  virtues  of  many  plants,  thinking  that  something 
would  result  in  the  whole,  which  was  not  in  either  of 
them,  and  a  new  efficacy  be  created.  Whereas,  it  has 
been  the  teaching  of  my  experience  that  one  virtue 
counteracts  another,  and  is  the  enemy  of  it,  I  never 
believed  the  former  theory,  even  when  that  strange 
madman  bade  me  do  it.  And  what  a  thick,  turbid 
matter  it  was,  until  that  last  ingredient,  —  that  powder 
which  he  put  in  with  his  own  hand  !  Had  he  let  me 
see  it,  I  would  first  have  analyzed  it,  and  discovered 
its  component  parts.  The  man  was  mad,  undoubtedly, 
and  this  may  have  been  poison.  But  its  effect  is  good. 
Poh !  I  will  taste  again,  because  of  this  weak,  agued, 
miserable  state  of  mine ;  though  it  is  a  shame  in  me,  a 
man  of  decent  skill  in  my  way,  to  believe  in  a  quack's 
nostrum.  But  it  is  a  comfortable  kind  of  thing." 

Meantime,  that  single  drop  (for  good  Dr.  Dolliver 
had  immediately  put  a  stopper  into  the  bottle)  diffused 
a  sweet  odor  through  the  chamber,  so  that  the  ordinary 
fragrances  and  scents  of  apothecaries'  stuff  seemed  to 
be  controlled  and  influenced  by  it,  and  its  bright  po 
tency  also  dispelled  a  certain  dimness  of  the  anti 
quated  room. 

The  Doctor,  at  the  pressure  of  a  great  need,  had 
given  incredible  pains  to  the  manufacture  of  this  med- 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  51 

icine  ;  so  that,  reckoning  the  pains  rather  than  the  in 
gredients  (all  except  one,  of  which  he  was  not  able  to 
estimate  the  cost  nor  value),  it  was  really  worth  its 
weight  in  gold.  And,  as  it  happened,  he  had  bestowed 
upon  it  the  hard  labor  of  his  poor  life,  and  the  time 
that  was  necessary  for  the  support  of  his  family,  with 
out  return ;  for  the  customers,  after  playing  off  this 
cruel  joke  upon  the  old  man,  had  never  come  back  ; 
and  now,  for  seven  years,  the  bottle  had  stood  in  a  cor 
ner  of  the  cupboard.  To  be  sure,  the  silver-cased  bot 
tle  was  worth  a  trifle  for  its  silver,  and  still  more,  per 
haps,  as  an  antiquarian  knick-knack.  But,  all  things 
considered,  the  honest  and  simple  apothecary  thought 
that  he  might  make  free  with  the  liquid  to  such  small 
extent  as  was  necessary  for  himself.  And  there  had 
been  something  in  the  concoction  that  had  struck  him  ; 
and  he  had  been  fast  breaking  lately  ;  and  so,  in  the 
dreary  fantasy  and  lonely  recklessness  of  his  old  age, 
he  had  suddenly  bethought  himself  of  this  medicine 
(cordial,  —  as  the  strange  man  called  it,  which  had 
come  to  him  by  long  inheritance  in  his  family)  and 
he  had  determined  to  try  it.  And  again,  as  the  night 
before,  he  took  out  the  receipt  —  a  roll  of  antique 
parchment,  out  of  which,  provokingly,  one  fold  had 
been  lost  —  and  put  on  his  spectacles  to  puzzle  out  the 
passage. 

Guttam  unicam  in  aquam  puram,  two  gills.  "  If 
the  Colonel  should  hear  of  this,"  said  Dr.  Dolliver, 
"  he  might  fancy  it  his  nostrum  of  long  life,  and  insist 
on  having  the  bottle  for  his  own  use.  The  foolish, 
fierce  old  gentleman  !  He  has  grown  very  earthly,  of 
late,  else  he  would  not  desire  such  a  thing.  And  a 
strong  desire  it  must  be  to  make  him  feel  it  desirable. 
For  my  part,  I  only  wish  for  something  that,  for  a 


52  THE   DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

short  time,  may  clear  my  eyes,  so  that  I  may  see  lit 
tie  Pansie' s  beauty,  and  quicken  my  ears,  that  I  may 
hear  her  sweet  voice,  and  give  me  nerve,  while  God 
keeps  me  here,  that  I  may  live  longer  to  earn  bread 
for  dear  Pansie.  She  provided  for,  I  would  gladly  lie 
down  yonder  with  Bessie  and  our  children.  Ah !  the 
vanity  of  desiring  lengthened  days  !  —  There  !  —  I 
have  drunk  it,  and  methinks  its  final,  subtle  flavor 
hath  strange  potency  in  it." 

The  old  man  shivered  a  little,  as  those  shiver  who 
have  just  swallowed  good  liquor,  while  it  is  permeat 
ing  their  vitals.  Yet  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  pleasant 
state  of  feeling,  and,  as  was  frequently  the  case  with 
this  simple  soul,  in  a  devout  frame  of  mind.  He  read 
a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  said  his  prayers  for  Pansie 
and  himself,  before  he  went  to  bed,  and  had  much  bet 
ter  sleep  than  usually  comes  to  people  of  his  advanced 
age ;  for,  at  that  period,  sleep  is  diffused  through  their 
wakefulness,  and  a  dim  and  tiresome  half-perception 
through  their  sleep,  so  that  the  only  result  is  weari 
ness. 

Nothing  \ery  extraordinary  happened  to  Dr.  Dolli- 
ver  or  his  small  household  for  some  time  afterwards. 
He  was  favored  with  a  comfortable  winter,  and  thanked 
Heaven  for  it,  and  put  it  to  a  good  use  (at  least  he  in 
tended  it  so)  by  concocting  drugs ;  which  perhaps  did 
a  little  towards  peopling  the  graveyard,  into  which  his 
windows  looked  ;  but  that  was  neither  his  purpose  nor 
his  fault.  None  of  the  sleepers,  at  all  events,  inter 
rupted  their  slumbers  to  upbraid  him.  He  had  done 
according  to  his  own  artless  conscience  and  the  recipes 
of  licensed  physicians,  and  he  looked  no  further,  but 
pounded,  triturated,  infused,  made  electuaries,  boluses, 
juleps,  or  whatever  he  termed  his  productions,  with 


THE   DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  53 

skill  and  diligence,  thanking  Heaven  that  he  was 
spared  to  do  so,  when  his  contemporaries  generally 
were  getting  incapable  of  similar  efforts.  It  struck 
him  with  some  surprise,  but  much  gratitude  to  Provi 
dence,  that  his  sight  seemed  to  be  growing  rather  bet 
ter  than  worse.  He  certainly  could  read  the  crabbed 
handwriting  and  hieroglyphics  of  the  physicians  with 
more  readiness  than  he  could  a  year  earlier.  But  he 
had  been  originally  near-sighted,  with  large,  projecting 
eyes  ;  and  near-sighted  eyes  always  seem  to  get  a  new 
lease  of  light  as  the  years  go  on.  One  thing  was  per 
ceptible  about  the  Doctor's  eyes,  not  only  to  himself  in 
the  glass,  but  to  everybody  else  ;  namely,  that  they  had 
an  unaccustomed  gleaming  brightness  in  them ;  not 
so  very  bright  either,  but  yet  so  much  so,  that  little 
Pansie'  noticed  it,  and  sometimes,  in  her  playful,  rogu 
ish  way,  climbed  up  into  his  lap,  and  put  both  her 
small  palms  over  them;  telling  Grandpapa  that  he 
had  stolen  somebody  else's  eyes,  and  given  away  his 
own,  and  that  she  liked  his  old  ones  better.  The  poor 
old  Doctor  did  his  best  to  smile  through  his  eyes,  and 
so  to  reconcile  Pansie  to  their  brightness :  but  still  she 
continually  made  the  same  silly  remonstrance,  so  that 
he  was  fain  to  put  on  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  when 
he  was  going  to  play  with  Pansie,  or  took  her  on  his 
knee.  Nay,  if  he  looked  at  her,  as  had  always  been 
his  custom,  after  she  was  asleep,  in  order  to  see  that 
all  was  well  with  her,  the  little  child  woidd  put  up  her 
hands,  as  if  he  held  a  light  that  was  flashing  on  her 
eyeballs  ;  and  unless  he  turned  away  his  gaze  quickly, 
she  would  wake  up  in  a  fit  of  crying. 

On  the  whole,  the  apothecary  had  as  comfortable  a 
time  as  a  man  of  his  years  could  expect.  The  air  of 
the  house  and  of  the  old  graveyard  seemed  to  suit 


54  THE  DO L LIVER   ROMANCE. 

him.  What  so  seldom  happens  in  manrs  advancing 
age,  his  night's  rest  did  him  good,  whereas,  generally, 
an  old  man  wakes  up  ten  times  as  nervous  and  dis 
pirited  as  he  went  to  bed,  just  as  if,  during  his  sleep 
he  had  been  working  harder  than  ever  he  did  in  the 
daytime.  It  had  been  so  with  the  Doctor  himself  till 
within  a  few  months.  To  be  sure,  he  had  latterly  be 
gun  to  practise  various  rules  of  diet  and  exercise, 
which  commended  themselves  to  his  approbation.  He 
sawed  some  of  his  own  fire-wood,  and  fancied  that,  as 
was  reasonable,  it  fatigued  him  less  day  by  day.  He 
took  walks  with  Pansie,  and  though,  of  course,  her 
little  footsteps,  treading  on  the  elastic  air  of  childhood, 
far  outstripped  his  own,  still  the  old  man  knew  that 
he  was  not  beyond  the  recuperative  period  of  life,  and 
that  exercise  out  of  doors  and  proper  food  can  do 
somewhat  towards  retarding  the  approach  of  age.  He 
was  inclined,  also,  to  impute  much  good  effect  to  a 
daily  dose  of  Santa  Cruz  rum  (a  liquor  much  in  vogue 
in  that  day),  which  he  was  now  in  the  habit  of  quaff 
ing  at  the  meridian  hour.  All  through  the  Doctor's 
life  he  had  eschewed  strong  spirits :  "  But  after  sev 
enty,"  quoth  old  Dr.  Dolliver,  "  a  man  is  all  the  bet 
ter  in  head  and  stomach  for  a  little  stimulus  " ;  and 
it  certainly  seemed  so  in  his  case.  Likewise,  I  know 
not  precisely  how  often,  but  complying  punctiliously 
with  the  recipe,  as  an  apothecary  naturally  would,  he 
took  his  drop  of  the  mysterious  cordial. 

He  was  inclined,  however,  to  impute  little  or  no  effi> 
cacy  to  this,  and  to  laugh  at  himself  for  having  ever 
thought  otherwise.  The  dose  was  so  very  minute  ! 
and  he  had  never  been  sensible  of  any  remarkable 
effect  on  taking  it,  after  all.  A  genial  warmth,  he 
sometimes  fancied,  diffused  itself  throughout  him,  and 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  55 

perhaps  continued  during  the  next  day.  A  quiet  and 
refreshing  night's  rest  followed,  and  alacritous  waking 
in  the  morning ;  but  all  this  was  far  more  probably 
owing,  as  has  been  already  liinted,  to  excellent  and 
well-considered  habits  of  diet  and  exercise.  Never 
theless  he  still  continued  the  cordial  with  tolerable  reg 
ularity,  —  the  more,  because  on  one  or  two  occasions, 
happening  to  omit  it,  it  so  chanced  that  he  slept 
wretchedly,  and  awoke  in  strange  aches  and  pains, 
torpors,  nervousness,  shaking  of  the  hands,  bleared- 
ness  of  sight,  lowness  of  spirits  and  other  ills,  as  is  the 
misfortune  of  some  old  men,  —  who  are  often  threat 
ened  by  a  thousand  evil  symptoms  that  come  to  noth 
ing,  foreboding  no  particular  disorder,  and  passing 
awray  as  unsatisfactorily  as  they  come.  At  another 
time,  he  took  two  or  three  drops  at  once,  and  was 
alarmingly  feverish  in  consequence.  Yet  it  was  very 
true,  that  the  feverish  symptoms  were  pretty  sure  to 
disappear  on  his  renewal  of  the  medicine.  "  Still  it 
could  not  be  that,''  thought  the  old  man,  a  hater  of 
empiricism  (in  which,  however,  is  contained  all  hope 
for  man),  and  disinclined  to  believe  in  anything  that 
was  not  according  to  ride  and  art.  And  then,  as 
aforesaid,  the  dose  was  so  ridiculously  small ! 

Sometimes,  however,  he  took,  half  laughingly,  an 
other  view  of  it,  and  felt  disposed  to  think  that  chance 
might  really  have  thrown  in  his  way  a  very  remarka 
ble  mixture,  by  which,  if  it  had  happened  to  him  ear 
lier  in  life,  he  might  have  amassed  a  larger  fortune, 
and  might  even  have  raked  together  such  a  compe 
tency  as  would  have  prevented  his  feeling  much  un 
easiness  about  the  future  of  little  Pansie.  Feeling  as 
strong  as  he  did  nowadays,  he  might  reasonably  count 
upon  ten  years  more  of  life,  and  in  that  time  the 


56  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

precious  liquor  might  be  exchanged  for  much  gold 
"  Let  us  see  !  "  quoth  he,  "  by  what  attractive  name 
shall  it  be  advertised  ?  4  The  old  man's  cordial  ?  ' 
That  promises  too  little.  Poh,  poh  !  I  would  stain 
my  honesty,  my  fair  reputation,  the  accumulation  of  a 
lifetime,  and  befool  my  neighbor  and  the  public,  by 
any  name  that  would  make  them  imagine  I  had 
found  that  ridiculous  talisman  that  the  alchemists  have 
sought.  The  old  man's  cordial,  —  that  is  best.  And 
five  shillings  sterling  the  bottle.  That  surely  were 
not  too  costly,  and  would  give  the  medicine  a  better 
reputation  and  higher  vogue  (so  foolish  is  the  world) 
than  if  I  were  to  put  it  lower.  I  will  think  further 
of  this.  But  pshaw,  pshaw !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter^  Grandpapa,"  said  little  Pan- 
sie,  who  had  stood  by  him,  wishing  to  speak  to  him  at 
least  a  minute,  but  had  been  deterred  by  his  absorp 
tion  ;  "  why  do  you  say  '  Pshaw  '  ?  " 

"  Pshaw !  "  repeated  Grandpapa,  "  there  is  one  in 
gredient  that  I  don't  know." 

So  this  very  hopeful  design  was  necessarily  given 
up,  but  that  it  had  occurred  to  Dr.  Dolliver  was  per 
haps  a  token  that  his  mind  was  in  a  very  vigorous 
state ;  for  it  had  been  noted  of  him  through  life,  that 
he  had  little  enterprise,  little  activity,  and  that,  for 
the  want  of  these  things,  his  very  considerable  skill  in 
his  art  had  been  almost  thrown  away,  as  regarded  his 
private  affairs,  when  it  might  easily  have  led  him  to 
fortune.  Whereas,  here  in  his  extreme  age,  he  had 
first  bethought  himself  of  a  way  to  grow  rich.  Some 
times  this  latter  spring  causes  —  as  blossoms  come  on 
the  autumnal  tree  —  a  spurt  of  vigor,  or  untimely 
greenness,  when  Nature  laughs  at  her  old  child,  hall 
in  kindness  and  half  in  scorn.  It  is  observable,  how 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  57 

ever,  I  fancy,  that  after  such  a  spurt,  age  comes  on 
with  redoubled  speed,  and  that  the  old  man  has  only 
run  forward  with  a  show  of  force,  in  order  to  fall  into 
his  grave  the  sooner. 

Sometimes,  as  he  was  walking  briskly  along  the 
street,  with  little  Pansie  clasping  his  hand,  and  per 
haps  frisking  rather  more  than  became  a  person  of  his 
venerable  years,  he  had  met  the  grini  old  wreck  of 
Colonel  Dabney,  moving  goutily,  and  gathering  wrath 
anew  with  every  touch  of  his  painful  foot  to  the 
ground;  or  driving  by  in  his  carriage,  showing  an 
ashen,  angry,  wrinkled  face  at  the  window,  and  frown 
ing  at  him  —  the  apothecary  thought  —  with  a  pecul 
iar  fury,  as* if  he  took  umbrage  at  his  audacity  in 
being  less  broken  by  age  than  a  gentleman  like  him 
self.  The  apothecary  could  not  help  feeling  as  if 
there  were  some  unsettled  quarrel  or  dispute  between 
himself  and  the  Colonel,  he  could  not  tell  what  or 
why.  The  Colonel  always  gave  him  a  haughty  nod  of 
half-recognition ;  and  the  people  in  the  street,  to  whom 
he  was  a  familiar  object,  woidd  say,  "  The  worshipful 
Colonel  begins  to  find  himself  mortal  like  the  rest  of 
us.  He  feels  his  years."  "  He  *d  be  glad,  I  warrant," 
said  one,  "  to  change  with  you,  Doctor.  It  shows  what 
difference  a  good  life  makes  in  men,  to  look  at  him 
and  you.  You  are  half  a  score  of  years  his  elder,  me- 
thinks,  and  yet  look  what  temperance  can  do  for  a 
man.  By  my  credit,  neighbor,  seeing  how  brisk  you 
have  been  lately,  I  told  my  wife  you  seemed  to  be 
growing  younger.  It  does  me  good  to  see  it.  AVe  are 
about  of  an  age,  I  think,  and  I  like  to  notice  how  we 
old  men  keep  young  and  keep  one  another  in  heart. 
I  myself  —  ahem  —  ahem  —  feel  younger  this  season 
than  for  these  five  years  past." 


58  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

"  It  rejoices  me  that  you  feel  so,"  quoth  the  apothe 
cary,  who  had  just  been  thinking  that  this  neighbor 
of  his  had  lost  a  great  deal,  both  in  mind  and  body, 
within  a  short  period,  and  rather  scorned  him  for  it. 
"Indeed,  I  find  old  age  less  uncomfortable  than  I 
supposed.  Little  Pansie  and  I  make  excellent  com 
panions  for  one  another." 

And  then,  dragged  along  by  Pansie's  little  hand, 
and  also  impelled  by  a  certain  alacrity  that  rose  with 
him  in  the  morning,  and  lasted  till  his  healthy  rest  at 
night,  he  bade  farewell  to  his  contemporary,  and 
hastened  on  ;  while  the  latter,  left  behind,  was  some 
what  irritated  as  he  looked  at  the  vigorous  movement 
of  the  apothecary's  legs. 

"  He  need  not  make  such  a  show  of  briskness 
neither,"  muttered  he  to  himself.  "This  touch  of 
rheumatism  troubles  me  a  bit  just  now,  but  try  it  on 
a  good  day,  and  I  'd  walk  with  him  for  a  shilling. 
Pshaw !  I  '11  walk  to  his  funeral  yet." 

One  day,  while  the  Doctor,  with  the  activity  that 
bestirred  itself  in  him  nowadays,  was  mixing  and  man 
ufacturing  certain  medicaments  that  came  in  frequent 
demand,  a  carriage  stopped  at  his  door,  and  he  recog 
nized  the  voice  of  Colonel  Dabney,  talking  in  his  cus 
tomary  stern  tone  to  the  woman  who  served  him. 
And,  a  moment  afterwards,  the  coach  drove  away, 
and  he  actually  heard  the  old  dignitary  lumbering  up 
stairs,  and  bestowing  a  curse  upon  each  particular 
step,  as  if  that  were  the  method  to  make  them  soften 
and  become  easier  when  he  should  come  down  again. 
"  Pray,  your  worship,"  said  the  Doctor  from  above, 
*  let  me  attend  you  below  stairs." 

"  No,"  growled  the  Colonel,  "  I  '11  meet  you  on  your 


THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  59 

own  ground.  I  can  climb  a  stair  yet,  and  be  hanged 
to  you." 

So  saying,  he  painfully  finished  the  ascent,  and 
came  into  the  laboratory,  where  he  let  himself  fall  into 
the  Doctor's  easy-chair,  with  an  anathema  on  the 
chair,  the  Doctor,  and  himself ;  and,  staring  round 
through  the  dusk,  he  met  the  wide-open,  startled  eyes 
of  little  Pansie,  who  had  been  reading  a  gilt  picture- 
book  in  the  corner. 

u  Send  away  that  child,  Dolliver,"  cried  the  Colonel, 
angrily.  '"  Confound  her,  she  makes  my  bones  ache. 
I  hate  everything  young." 

"  Lord,  Colonel,"'  the  poor  apothecary  ventured  to 
say,  "  there  must  be  young  people  in  the  world  as  well 
as  old  ones.  'T  is  my  mind,  a  man's  grandchildren 
keep  him  warm  round  about  him." 

4'  I  have  none,  and  want  none,"  sharply  responded 
the  Colonel ;  "  and  as  for  young  people,  let  me  be  one 
of  them,  and  they  may  exist,  otherwise  not.  It  is  a 
cursed  bad  arrangement  of  the  world,  that  there  are 
young  and  old  here  together." 

When  Pansie  had  gone  away,  which  she  did  with 
anything  but  reluctance,  having  a  natural  antipathy 
to  this  monster  of  a  Colonel,  the  latter  personage 
tapped  with  his  crutch-handled  cane  on  a  chair  that 
stood  near,  and  nodded  in  an  authoritative  way  to  the 
apothecary  to  sit  down  in  it.  Dr.  Dolliver  complied 
submissively,  and  the  Colonel,  with  dull,  unkindly 
eyes,  looked  at  him  sternly,  and  with  a  kind  of  intelli 
gence  amid  the  aged  stolidity  of  his  aspect,  that  some 
what  puzzled  the  Doctor.  In  this  way  he  surveyed 
him  all  over,  like  a  judge,  when  he  means  to  hang  a 
man,  and  for  some  reason  or  none,  the  apothecary  felt 
his  nerves  shake,  beneath  this  steadfast  look. 


60  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

"  Aha  !  Doctor  !  "  said  the  Colonel  at  last,  with  a 
doltish  sneer,  "  you  bear  your  years  well." 

"  Decently  well,  Colonel ;  I  thank  Providence  for 
it,"  answered  the  meek  apothecary. 

"  I  should  say,"  quoth  the  Colonel,  "  you  are 
younger  at  this  moment  than  when  we  spoke  together 
two  or  three  years  ago.  I  noted  then  that  your  eye^ 
brows  were  a  handsome  snow-white,  such  as  befits  a 
man  who  has  passed  beyond  his  threescore  years  and 
ten,  and  five  years  more.  Why,  they  are  getting  dark 
again,  Mr.  Apothecary." 

"  Nay,  your  worship  must  needs  be  mistaken  there," 
said  the  Doctor,  with  a  timorous  chuckle.  "  It  is 
many  a  year  since  I  have  taken  a  deliberate  note  of 
my  wretched  old  visage  in  a  glass,  but  I  remember 
they  were  white  when  I  looked  last." 

"  Come,  Doctor,  I  know  a  thing  or  two,"  said  the 
Colonel,  with  a  bitter  scoff ;  "  and  what  's  this,  you 
old  rogue  ?  Why,  you  've  rubbed  away  a  wrinkle 
since  we  met.  Take  off  those  infernal  spectacles,  and 
look  me  in  the  face.  Ha  !  I  see  the  devil  in  your  eye. 
How  dare  you  let  it  shine  upon  me  so  ?  " 

"  On  my  conscience,  Colonel,"  said  the  apothecary, 
strangely  struck  with  the  coincidence  of  this  accusa 
tion  with  little  Pansie's  complaint,  "  I  know  not  what 
you  mean.  My  sight  is  pretty  well  for  a  man  of  my 
age.  We  near-sighted  people  begin  to  know  our  best 
eyesight,  when  other  people  have  lost  theirs." 

"  Ah  !  ah !  old  rogue,"  repeated  the  insufferable 
Colonel,  gnashing  his  ruined  teeth  at  him,  as  if,  for 
some  incomprehensible  reason,  he  wished  to  tear  him 
to  pieces  and  devour  him.  "  I  know  you.  You  are  tak 
ing  the  life  away  from  me,  villain  !  and  I  told  you  it 
was  my  inheritance.  And  I  told  you  there  was  a 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  61 

Bloody  Footstep,  bearing  its  track  down  through  my 
race/' 

44 1  remember  nothing  of  it,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  a 
quake,  sure  that  the  Colonel  was  in  one  of  his  mad 
fits.  "  And  on  the  word  of  an  honest  man,  I  never 
wronged  you  in  my  life,  Colonel." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  the  Colonel,  whose  wrinkled, 
visage  grew  absolutely  terrible  with  its  hardness  ;  and 
his  dull  eyes,  without  losing  their  dulness,  seemed  to 
look  through  him. 

"  Listen  to  me,  sir.  Some  ten  years  ago,  there  came 
to  you  a  man  on  a  secret  business.  He  had  an  old 
musty  bit  of  parchment,  on  which  were  written  some 
words,  hardly  legible,  in  an  antique  hand,  —  an  old 
deed,  it  might  have  been,  —  some  family  document, 
and  here  and  there  the  letters  were  faded  away.  But 
this  man  had  ment  his  life  over  it,  and  he  had  made 
out  the  meaning,  and  he  interpreted  it  to  you,  and  left 
it  with  you,  only  there  was  one  gap,  —  one  torn  or  ob 
literated  place.  "Well,  sir,  —  and  he  bade  you,  with 
your  poor  little  skill  at  the  mortar,  and  for  a  certain 
sum,  —  ample  repayment  for  such  a  service,  —  to 
manufacture  this  medicine,  —  this  cordial.  It  was  an 
affair  of  months.  And  just  when  you  thought  it  fin 
ished,  the  man  came  again,  and  stood  over  your  cursed 
beverage,  and  shook  a  powder,  or  dropped  a  lump  into 
it,  or  put  in  some  ingredient,  in  which  was  all  the  hid 
den  virtue,  —  or,  at  least,  it  drew  out  all  the  hidden 
virtue  of  the  mean  and  common  herbs,  and  married 
them  into  a  wondrous  efficacy.  This  done,  the  man 
bade  you  do  certain  other  things  with  the  potation, 
and  went  away  "  —  the  Colonel  hesitated  a  moment  — 
u  and  never  came  back  again." 

"  Surely,  Colonel,  you  are  correct,"  said  the  apothe- 


62  THE   DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

cary ;  much  startled,  however,  at  the  Colonel's  show 
ing  himself  so  well  acquainted  with  an  incident  which 
he  had  supposed  a  secret  with  himself  alone.  Yet  he 
had  a  little  reluctance  in  owning  it,  although  he  did 
not  exactly  understand  why,  since  the  Colonel  had,  ap 
parently,  no  rightful  claim  to  it,  at  all  events. 

"  That  medicine,  that  receipt,"  continued  his  visitor^ 
"  is  my  hereditary  property,  and  I  challenge  you,  on 
your  peril,  to  give  it  up." 

"  But  what  if  the  original  owner  should  call  upon 
me  for  it,"  objected  Dr.  Dolliver. 

" I  '11  warrant  you  against  that,"  said  the  Colo 
nel  ;  and  the  apothecary  thought  there  was  something 
ghastly  in  his  look  and  tone.  "  Why,  't  is  ten  year, 
you  old  fool ;  and  do  you  think  a  man  with  a  treas 
ure  like  that  in  his  possession  would  have  waited  so 
long?" 

"  Seven  years  it  was  ago,"  said  the  apothecary. 
"  Septem  annis  passatis  :  so  says  the  Latin." 

"  Curse  your  Latin,"  answers  the  Colonel.  "  Pro' 
duce  the  stuff.  You  have  been  violating  the  first  rule 
of  your  trade,  —  taking  your  own  drugs,  —  your  own, 
in  one  sense  ;  mine  by  the  right  of  three  hundred 
years.  Bring  it  forth,  I  say  !  " 

"  Pray  excuse  me,  worthy  Colonel,"  pleaded  the 
apothecary  ;  for  though  convinced  that  the  old  gentle 
man  was  only  in  one  of  his  insane  fits,  when  he  talked 
of  the  value  of  this  concoction,  yet  he  really  did  not 
like  to  give  up  the  cordial,  which  perhaps  had  wrought 
him  some  benefit.  Besides,  he  had  at  least  a  claim 
upon  it  for  much  trouble  and  skill  expended  in  its 
composition.  This  he  suggested  to  the  Colonel,  who 
scornfully  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  net -work  purse, 
with  more  golden  guineas  in  it  than  the  apothecary 


THE   DOLLIVER   ROMANCE.  63 

had  seen  in  the  whole  seven  years,  and  was  rude 
enough  to  fling  it  in  his  face.  "  Take  that,"  thun 
dered  he,  "  and  give  up  the  thing,  or  I  will  have  you 
in  prison  before  you  are  an  hour  older.  Xay,"  he 
continued,  growing  pale,  which  was  his  mode  of  show 
ing  terrible  wrath  ;  since  all  through  life,  till  extreme 
age  quenched  it,  his  ordinary  face  had  been  a  blazing 
red,  "  I  '11  put  you  to  death,  you  villain,  as  I  've  a 
right ! "  And  thrusting  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat- 
pocket,  lo  !  the  madman  took  a  small  pistol  from  it, 
which  he  cocked,  and  presented  at  the  poor  apothe 
cary.  The  old  fellow  quaked  and  cowered  in  his  chair, 
and  woidd  indeed  have  given  his  whole  shopful  of  bet 
ter  concocted  medicines  than  this,  to  be  out  of  this 
danger.  Besides,  there  were  the  guineas  ;  the  Colo 
nel  had  paid  him  a  princely  sum  for  what  was  prob 
ably  worth  nothing. 

"  Hold  !  hold !  "  cried  he  as  the  Colonel,  with  stern 
eye  pointed  the  pistol  at  his  head.  "  You  shall  have 
it." 

So  he  rose  all  trembling,  and  crept  to  that  secret 
cupboard,  where  the  precious  bottle  —  since  precious 
it  seemed  to  be  —  was  reposited.  In  all  his  life,  long 
as  it  had  been,  the  apothecary  had  never  before  been 
threatened  by  a  deadly  weapon  ;  though  many  as 
deadly  a  thing  had  he  seen  poured  into  a  glass,  with 
out  winking.  And  so  it  seemed  to  take  his  heart  and 
life  away,  and  he  brought  the  cordial  forth  feebly,  and 
stood  tremulously  before  the  Colonel,  ashy  pale,  and 
looking  ten  years  older  than  his  real  age,  instead  of 
five  years  younger,  as  he  had  seemed  just  before  this 
disastrous  interview  with  the  Colonel. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  needed  a  drop  of  it  yourself," 
%aid  Colonel  Dabney,  with  great  scorn.  "  But  not  a 


64  THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE. 

drop  shall  you  have.  Already  have  you  stolen  too 
much,"  said  he,  lifting  up  the  bottle,  and  marking  the 
space  to  which  the  liquor  had  subsided  in  it  in  conse 
quence  of  the  minute  doses  with  which  the  apothecary 
had  made  free.  "  Fool,  had  you  taken  your  glass  like 
a  man,  you  might  have  been  young  again.  Now,  creep 
on,  the  few  months  you  have  left,  poor,  torpid  knave 
and  die  !  Come  —  a  goblet !  quick  !  " 

He  clutched  the  bottle  meanwhile  voraciously,  mi 
serly,  eagerly,  furiously,  as  if  it  were  his  life  that  he 
held  in  his  grasp  ;  angry,  impatient,  as  if  something 
long  sought  were  within  his  reach,  and  not  yet  secure, 
—  with  longing  thirst  and  desire  ;  suspicious  of  the 
world  and  of  fate  ;  feeling  as  if  an  iron  hand  were 
over  him,  and  a  crowd  of  violent  robbers  round  about 
him,  struggling  for  it.  At  last,  unable  to  wait  longer, 
just  as  the  apothecary  was  tottering  away  in  quest  of 
a  drinking-glass,  the  Colonel  took  out  the  stopple,  and 
lifted  the  flask  itself  to  his  lips. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  no  !  "  cried  the  Doctor.  "  The 
dose  is  one  single  drop  !  —  one  drop,  Colonel,  one 
drop  !  " 

"  Not  a  drop  to  save  your  wretched  old  soul,"  re 
sponded  the  Colonel ;  probably  thinking  that  the  apoth 
ecary  was  pleading  for  a  small  share  of  the  precious 
liquor.  He  put  it  to  his  lips,  and,  as  if  quenching  a 
lifelong  thirst,  swallowed  deep  draughts,  sucking  it  in 
with  desperation,  till,  void  of  breath,  he  set  it  down 
upon  the  table.  The  rich,  poignant  perfume  spread 
itself  through  the  air. 

The  apothecary,  with  an  instinctive  carefulness  that 
was  rather  ludicrous  under  the  circumstances,  caught 
up  the  stopper,  which  the  Colonel  had  let  fall,  and 
forced  it  into  the  bottle  to  prevent  any  farther  escape 


THE  DOLL1VER  ROMANCE.  65 

of  virtue.  He  then  fearfully  watched  the  result  of 
the  madman's  potation. 

The  Colonel  sat  a  moment  in  his  chair,  panting  for 
breath ;  then  started  to  his  feet  with  a  prompt  vigor 
that  contrasted  widely  with  the  infirm  and  rheumatic 
movements  that  had  heretofore  characterized  him.  He 
struck  his  forehead  violently  with  one  hand,  and  smote 
his  chest  with  the  other :  he  stamped  his  foot  thunder 
ously  on  the  ground ;  then  he  leaped  up  to  the  ceil 
ing,  and  came  down  with  an  elastic  bound.  Then 
he  laughed,  a  wild,  exulting  ha !  ha !  with  a  strange 
triumphant  roar  that  filled  the  house  and  reechoed 
through  it ;  a  sound  full  of  fierce,  animal  rapture,  — 
enjoyment  of  sensual  life  mixed  up  with  a  sort  of  hor 
ror.  After  all,  real  as  it  was,  it  was  like  the  sounds 
a  man  makes  in  a  dream.  And  this,  while  the  potent 
draught  seemed  still  to  be  making  its  way  through  his 
system ;  and  the  frightened  apothecary  thought  that 
he  intended  a  revengeful  onslaught  upon  himself.  Fi 
nally,  he  uttered  a  loud  unearthly  screech,  in  the  midst 
of  which  his  voice  broke,  as  if  some  unseen  hand 
were  throttling  him,  and,  starting  forward,  he  fought 
frantically,  as  if  he  would  clutch  the  life  that  was  be 
ing  rent  away,  —  and  fell  forward  with  a  dead  thump 
upon  the  floor. 

"  Colonel !  Colonel !  "  cried  the  terrified  Doctor. 

The  feeble  old  man,  with  difficulty,  turned  over  the 
heavy  frame,  and  saw  at  once,  with  practised  eye,  that 
he  was  dead.  He  set  him  up,  and  the  corpse  looked 
at  him  with  angry  reproach.  He  was  so  startled,  that 
his  subsequent  recollections  of  the  moment  were  nei 
ther  distinct  nor  steadfast ;  but  he  fancied,  though  he 
told  the  strange  impression  to  110  one,  that  on  his  first 
glimpse  of  the  face,  with  a  dark  flush  of  what  looked 


66  THE  DOLLIVER   ROMANCE. 

like  rage  still  upon  it,  it  was  a  young  man's  face  that 
he  saw,  —  a  face  with  all  the  passionate  energy  of 
early  manhood,  —  the  capacity  for  furious  anger  which 
the  man  had  lost  half  a  century  ago,  crammed  to  the 
brim  with  vigor  till  it  became  agony.  But  the  next 
moment,  if  it  were  so  (which  it  could  not  have  been), 
the  face  grew  ashen,  withered,  shrunken,  more  aged 
than  in  life,  though  still  the  murderous  fierceness  re 
mained,  and  seemed  to  be  petrified  forever  upon  it. 

After  a  moment's  bewilderment,  Dolliver  ran  to  the 
window  looking  to  the  street,  threw  it  open,  and  called 
loudly  for  assistance.  He  opened  also  another  window, 
for  the  air  to  blow  through,  for  he  was  almost  stifled 
with  the  rich  odor  of  the  cordial  which  filled  the  room, 
and  was  now  exuded  from  the  corpse. 

He  heard  the  voice  of  Pansie,  crying  at  the  door, 
which  was  locked,  and,  turning  the  key,  he  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  hastened  with  her  below  stairs,  to 
give  her  into  the  charge  of  Martha,  who  seemed  half 
stupefied  with  a  sense  of  something  awful  that  had  oc 
curred. 

Meanwhile  there  was  a  rattling  and  a  banging  at 
the  street  portal,  to  which  several  people  had  been  at 
tracted  both  by  the  Doctor's  outcry  from  the  window, 
and  by  the  awful  screech  in  which  the  Colonel's  spirit 
(if,  indeed,  he  had  that  divine  part)  had  just  previ 
ously  taken  its  flight. 

He  let  them  in,  and,  pale  and  shivering,  ushered 
them  up  to  the  death-chamber,  where  one  or  two,  with 
a  more  delicate  sense  of  smelling  than  the  rest,  snuffed 
the  atmosphere,  as  if  sensible  of  an  unknown  fra 
grance,  yet  appeared  afraid  to  breathe,  when  they  saw 
the  terrific  countenance  leaning  back  against  the  chair, 
and  eying  them  so  truculently.  .  /4.. 


THE  DOLLIVER  ROMANCE.  67 

I  would  fain  quit  the  scene  and  have  done  with  the 
Colonel,  who,  I  am  glad,  has  happened  to  die  at  so 
early  a  period  of  the  narrative.  I  therefore  hasten 
to  say  that  a  coroner's  inquest  was  held  on  the  spot, 
though  everybody  felt  that  it  was  merely  ceremonial, 
and  that  the  testimony  of  their  good  and  ancient 
townsman,  Dr.  Dolliver,  was  amply  sufficient  to  settle 
the  matter.  The  verdict  was,  "  Death  by  the  visita 
tion  of  God." 

The  apothecary  gave  evidence  that  the  Colonel, 
without  asking  leave,  and  positively  against  his  advice, 
had  drunk  a  quantity  of  distilled  spirits ;  and  one  or 
two  servants,  or  members  of  the  Colonel's  family,  tes 
tified  that  he  had  been  in  a  very  uncomfortable  state 
of  mind  for  some  days  past,  so  that  they  fancied  he 
was  insane.  Therefore  nobody  thought  of  blaming 
Dr.  Dolliver  for  what  had  happened ;  and,  if  the  plain 
truth  must  be  told,  everybody  who  saw  the  wreteh  was 
too  well  content  to  be  rid  of  him,  to  trouble  themselves 
more  than  was  quite  necessary  about  the  way  in  which 
the  incunibrance  had  been  removed. 

The  corpse  was  taken  to  the  mansion  in  order  to  re 
ceive  a  magnificent  funeral ;  and  Dr.  Dolliver  was  left 
outwardly  in  quiet,  but  much  disturbed,  and  indeed  al 
most  overwhelmed  inwardly,  by  what  had  happened. 
Yet  it  is  to  be  observed,  that  he  had  accounted  for  the 
death  with  a  singular  dexterity  of  expression,  when  he 
attributed  it  to  a  dose  of  distilled  spirits.  What  kind 
of  distilled  spirits  were  those,  Doctor  ?  and  will  you 
venture  to  take  any  more  of  them  ? 


FANSHAWE. 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 


FANSHAWE. 

IN  1828,  three  years  after  graduating  from  Bow 
doin  College,  Hawthorne  published  his  first  romance, 
"  Fanshawe."  It  was  issued  at  Boston  by  Marsh  & 
Capen,  but  made  little  or  no  impression  on  the  public. 
The  motto  on  the  title-page  of  the  original  was  from 
Southey :  "  Wilt  thou  go  on  with  me  ?  " 

Afterwards,  when  he  had  struck  into  the  vein  of  fic 
tion  that  came  to  be  known  as  distinctively  his  own, 
he  attempted  to  suppress  this  youthful  work,  and  was 
so  successful  that  he  obtained  and  destroyed  all  but  a 
few  of  the  copies  then  extant. 

Some  twelve  years  after  his  death  it  was  resolved, 
in  view  of  the  interest  manifested  in  tracing  the 
growth  of  his  genius  from  the  beginning  of  his  activ 
ity  as  an  author,  to  revive  this  youthful  romance ;  and 
the  reissue  of  "  Fanshawe  "  was  then  made. 

Little  biographical  interest  attaches  to  it,  beyond 
the  fact  that  Mr.  Longfellow  found  in  the  descriptions 
and  general  atmosphere  of  the  book  a  decided  sugges 
tion  of  the  situation  of  Bowdoin  College,  at  Bruns 
wick,  Maine,  and  the  life  there  at  the  time  when  he 
and  Hawthorne  were  both  undergraduates  of  that  in 
stitution. 

Professor  Packard,  of  Bowdoin   College,  who  was 


72  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

then  in  charge  of  the  study  of  English  literature,  and 
has  survived  both  of  his  illustrious  pupils,  recalls 
Hawthorne's  exceptional  excellence  in  the  composition 
of  English,  even  at  that  date  (1821-1825)  ;  and  it  is 
not  impossible  that  Hawthorne  intended,  through  the 
character  of  Fanshawe,  to  present  some  faint  projec 
tion  of  what  he  then  thought  might  be  his  own  ob 
scure  history.  Even  while  he  was  in  college,  how 
ever,  and  meditating  perhaps  the  slender  elements  of 
this  first  romance,  his  fellow-student  Horatio  Bridge, 
whose  "  Journal  of  an  African  Cruiser  "  he  afterwards 
edited,  recognized  in  him  the  possibilities  of  a  writer 
of  fiction  —  a  fact  to  which  Hawthorne  alludes  in  tha 
dedicatory  Preface  to  "  The  Snow-Image." 

G.  P.  L. 


FANSHAWE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

"  Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe."  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

IN  an  ancient  though  not  very  populous  settlement, 
in  a  retired  corner  of  one  of  the  Xew  England  States, 
arise  the  walls  of  a  seminary  of  learning,  which,  for 
the  convenience  of  a  name,  shall  be  entitled  u  Harley 
College."  This  institution,  though  the  number  of  its 
years  is  inconsiderable  compared  with  the  hoar  an 
tiquity  of  its  European  sisters,  is  not  without  some 
claims  to  reverence  on  the  score  of  age ;  for  an  almost 
countless  multitude  of  rivals,  by  many  of  which  its 
reputation  has  been  eclipsed,  have  sprung  up  since  its 
foundation.  At  no  time,  indeed,  during  an  existence 
of  nearly  a  century,  has  it  acquired  a  very  extensive 
fame ;  and  circumstances,  which  need  not  be  particu 
larized,  have,  of  late  years,  involved  it  in  a  deeper  ob 
scurity.  There  are  now  few  candidates  for  the  degrees 
that  the  college  is  authorized  to  bestow.  On  two  of 
its  annual  "  Commencement  Days,"  there  has  been  a 
total  deficiency  of  baccalaureates ;  and  the  lawyers 
and  divines,  on  whom  doctorates  in  their  respective 
professions  are  gratuitously  inflicted,  are  not  accus 
tomed  to  consider  the  distinction  as  an  honor.  Yet 
the  sons  of  this  seminary  have  always  maintained  their 
full  share  of  reputation,  in  whatever  paths  of  life  they 


74  FANSHAWE. 

trod.  Few  of  them,  perhaps,  have  been  deep  and 
finished  scholars  ;  but  the  college  has  supplied  —  what 
the  emergencies  of  the  country  demanded  —  a  set  of 
men  more  useful  in  its  present  state,  and  whose  de 
ficiency  in  theoretical  knowledge  has  not  been  found 
to  imply  a  want  of  practical  ability. 

The  local  situation  of  the  college,  so  far  secluded 
from  the  sight  and  sound  of  the  busy  world,  is  pecul 
iarly  favorable  to  the  moral,  if  not  to  the  literary, 
habits  of  its  students ;  and  this  advantage  probably 
caused  the  founders  to  overlook  the  inconveniences 
that  were  inseparably  connected  with  it.  The  hum 
ble  edifices  rear  themselves  almost  at  the  farthest  ex 
tremity  of  a  narrow  vale,  which,  winding  through  a 
long  extent  of  hill-country,  is  wellnigh  as  inaccessible, 
except  at  one  point,  as  the  Happy  Valley  of  Abyssinia. 
A  stream,  that  farther  on  becomes  a  considerable  river, 
takes  its  rise  at  a  short  distance  above  the  college,  and 
affords,  along  its  wood-fringed  banks,  many  shady  re 
treats,  where  even  study  is  pleasant,  and  idleness  de 
licious.  The  neighborhood  of  the  institution  is  not 
quite  a  solitude,  though  the  few  habitations  scarcely 
constitute  a  village.  These  consist  principally  of 
farm-houses,  of  rather  an  ancient  date  (for  the  settle 
ment  is  much  older  than  the  college),  and  of  a  little 
inn,  which  even  in  that  secluded  spot  does  not  fail  of 
a  moderate  support.  Other  dwellings  are  scattered 
up  and  down  the  valley ;  but  the  difficulties  of  the  soil 
will  long  avert  the  evils  of  a  too  dense  population. 
The  character  of  the  inhabitants  does  not  seem  —  as 
there  was,  perhaps,  room  to  anticipate  —  to  be  in  any 
degree  influenced  by  the  atmosphere  of  Harley  Col 
lege.  They  are  a  set  of  rough  and  hardy  yeomen, 
much  inferior,  as  respects  refinement,  to  the  corre< 


FANSHA  WE.  75 

sponcling  classes  in  most  other  parts  of  our  country. 
This  is  the  more  remarkable,  as  there  is  scarcely  a 
family  in  the  vicinity  that  has  not  provided,  for  at 
least  one  of  its  sons,  the  advantages  of  a  "  liberal  edu 
cation." 

Having  thus  described  the  present  state  of  Harley 
College,  we  must  proceed  to  speak  of  it  as  it  existed 
about  eighty  years  since,  when  its  foundation  was  re 
cent,  and  its  prospects  flattering.  At  the  head  of  the 
institution,  at  this  period,  was  a  learned  and  Ortho 
dox  divine,  whose  fame  was  in  all  the  churches.  He 
was  the  author  of  several  works  which  evinced  much 
erudition  and  depth  of  research ;  and  the  public,  per 
haps,  thought  the  more  highly  of  his  abilities  from  a 
singularity  in  the  purposes  to  which  he  applied  them, 
that  added  much  to  the  curiosity  of  his  labors,  though 
little  to  their  usefulness.  But,  however  fanciful  might 
be  his  private  pursuits,  Dr.  Melmoth,  it  was  univer 
sally  allowed,  was  diligent  and  successful  in  the  arts 
of  instruction.  The  young  men  of  his  charge  pros 
pered  beneath  his  eye,  and  regarded  him  with  an  af 
fection  that  was  strengthened  by  the  little  foibles  which 
occasionally  excited  their  ridicule.  The  president  was 
assisted  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  by  two  inferior 
officers,  chosen  from  the  alumni  of  the  college,  who, 
while  they  imparted  to  others  the  knowledge  they  had 
already  imbibed,  pursued  the  study  of  divinity  under 
the  direction  of  their  principal.  Under  such  auspices 
the  institution  grew  and  flourished.  Having  at  that 
time  but  two  rivals  in  the  country  (neither  of  them 
within  a  considerable  distance),  it  became  the  general 
resort  of  the  youth  of  the  Province  in  which  it  was  sit 
uated.  For  several  years  in  succession,  its  students 
amounted  to  nearly  fifty,  —  a  number  which,  relatively 


76  FANSHAWE. 

to  the  circumstances  of  the  country,  was  very  consid 
erable. 

From  the  exterior  of  the  collegians,  an  accurate  ob 
server  might  pretty  safely  judge  how  long  they  had 
been  inmates  of  those  classic  walls.  The  brown  cheeks 
and  the  rustic  dress  of  some  would  inform  him  that 
they  had  but  recently  left  the  plough  to  labor  in  a  not 
less  toilsome  field ;  the  grave  look,  and  the  intermin 
gling  of  garments  of  a  more  classic  cut,  would  distin 
guish  those  who  had  begun  to  acquire  the  polish  of 
their  new  residence;  and  the  air  of  superiority,  the 
paler  cheek,  the  less  robust  form,  the  spectacles  of 
green,  and  the  dress,  in  general  of  threadbare  black, 
would  designate  the  highest  class,  who  were  under 
stood  to  have  acquired  nearly  all  the  science  their  Alma 
Mater  could  bestow,  and  to  be  on  the  point  of  assum 
ing  their  stations  in  the  world.  There  were,  it  is  true, 
exceptions  to  this  general  description.  A  few  young 
men  had  found  their  way  hither  from  the  distant  sea 
ports  ;  and  these  were  the  models  of  fashion  to  their 
rustic  companions,  over  whom  they  asserted  a  supe 
riority  in  exterior  accomplishments,  which  the  fresh 
though  unpolished  intellect  of  the  sons  of  the  forest 
denied  them  in  their  literary  competitions.  A  third 
class,  differing  widely  from  both  the  former,  consisted 
of  a  few  young  descendants  of  the  aborigines,  to  whom 
an  impracticable  philanthropy  was  endeavoring  to  im 
part  the  benefits  of  civilization. 

If  this  institution  did  not  offer  all  the  advantages  of 
elder  and  prouder  seminaries,  its  deficiencies  were  com 
pensated  to  its  students  by  the  inculcation  of  regular 
habits,  and  of  a  deep  and  awful  sense  of  religion, 
which  seldom  deserted  them  in  their  course  through 
life.  The  mild  and  gentle  rule  of  Dr.  Melmoth,  iiko 


FANSHAWE.  77 

that  of  a  father  over  his  children,  was  more  destruc 
tive  to  vice  than  a  sterner  sway ;  and  though  youth 
is  never  without  its  follies,  they  have  seldom  been 
more  harmless  than  they  were  here.  The  students, 
indeed,  ignorant  of  their  own  bliss,  sometimes  wished 
to  hasten  the  time  of  their  entrance  on  the  business  of 
life ;  but  they  found,  in  after-years,  that  many  of  their 
happiest  remembrances,  many  of  the  scenes  which  they 
would  with  least  reluctance  live  over  again,  referred 
to  the  seat  of  their  early  studies.  The  exceptions  to 
this  remark  were  chiefly  those  whose  vices  had  drawn 
down,  even  from  that  paternal  government,  a  weighty 
retribution. 

Dr.  Melmoth,  at  the  time  when  he  is  to  be  intro 
duced  to  the  reader,  had  borne  the  matrimonial  yoke 
(and  in  his  case  it  was  no  light  burden)  nearly  twenty 
years.  The  blessing  of  children,  however,  had  been 
denied  him,  —  a  circumstance  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  consider  as  one  of  the  sorest  trials  that  checkered 
his  pathway ;  for  he  was  a  man  of  a  kind  and  affec 
tionate  heart,  that  was  continually  seeking  objects  to 
rest  itself  upon.  He  was  inclined  to  believe,  also,  that 
a  common  offspring  would  have  exerted  a  meliorating 
influence  on  the  temper  of  Mrs.  Melmoth.  the  charac 
ter  of  whose  domestic  government  often  compelled  him 
to  call  to  mind  such  portions  of  the  wisdom  of  an 
tiquity  as  relate  to  the  proper  endurance  of  the  shrew 
ishness  of  woman.  But  domestic  comforts,  as  well  as 
comforts  of  every  other  kind,  have  their  drawbacks ; 
and,  so  long  as  the  balance  is  on  the  side  of  happiness, 
a  wise  man  will  not  murmur.  Such  was  the  opinion 
of  Dr.  Melmoth ;  and  with  a  little  aid  from  philoso 
phy,  and  more  from  religion,  he  journeyed  on  content 
edly  through  life.  When  the  storm  was  loud  by  the 


78  FANSHAWE. 

parlor  hearth,  he  had  always  a  sure  and  quiet  retreat 
in  his  study ;  and  there,  in  his  deep  though  not  al 
ways  useful  labors,  he  soon  forgot  whatever  of  disa 
greeable  nature  pertained  to  his  situation.  This  small 
and  dark  apartment  was  the  only  portion  of  the  house 
to  which,  since  one  firmly  repelled  invasion,  Mrs.  Mel- 
moth's  omnipotence  did  not  extend.  Here  (to  reverse 
the  words  of  Queen  Elizabeth)  there  was  ubut  one 
master  and  no  mistress "  ;  and  that  man  has  little 
right  to  complain  who  possesses  so  much  as  one  cor 
ner  in  the  world  where  he  may  be  happy  or  miserable, 
as  best  suits  him.  In  his  study,  then,  the  doctor  was 
accustomed  to  spend  most  of  the  hours  that  were  un 
occupied  by  the  duties  of  his  station.  The  flight  of 
time  was  here  as  swift  as  the  wind,  and  noiseless  as 
the  snow-flake  ;  and  it  was  a  sure  proof  of  real  happi 
ness  that  night  often  came  upon  the  student  before  he 
knew  it  was  midday. 

Dr.  Melmoth  was  wearing  towards  age  (having  lived 
nearly  sixty  years),  when  he  was  called  upon  to  as 
sume  a  character  to  which  he  had  as  yet  been  a  stran 
ger.  He  had  possessed  in  his  youth  a  very  dear  friend, 
with  whom  his  education  had  associated  him,  and  who 
in  his  early  manhood  had  been  his  chief  intimate. 
Circumstances,  however,  had  separated  them  for  nearly 
thirty  years,  half  of  which  had  been  spent  by  his  friend, 
who  was  engaged  in  mercantile  pursuits,  in  a  foreign 
country.  The  doctor  had,  nevertheless,  retained  a  warm 
interest  in  the  welfare  of  his  old  associate,  though  the 
different  nature  of  their  thoughts  and  occupations  had 
prevented  them  from  corresponding.  After  a  silence 
of  so  long  continuance,  therefore,  he  was  surprised  by 
the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  his  friend,  containing  a 
request  of  a  most  unexpected  nature. 


FANSHAWE.  79 

Mr.  Langton  had  married  rather  late  in  life ;  and 
his  wedded  bliss  had  been  but  of  short  continuance. 
Certain  misfortunes  in  trade,  when  he  was  a  Benedict 
of  three  years'  standing,  had  deprived  him  of  a  large 
portion  of  his  property,  and  compelled  him,  in  order 
to  save  the  remainder,  to  leave  his  own  country  for 
what  he  hoped  would  be  but  a  brief  residence  in  an 
other.  But,  though  he  was  successful  in  the  immedi 
ate  objects  of  his  voyage,  circumstances  occurred  to 
lengthen  his  stay  far  beyond  the  period  which  he  had 
assigned  to  it.  It  was  difficult  so  to  arrange  his  ex 
tensive  concerns  that  they  could  be  safely  trusted  to 
the  management  of  others;  and,  when  this  was  ef 
fected,  there  was  another  not  less  powerful  obstacle  to 
his  return.  His  affairs,  under  his  own  inspection, 
were  so  prosperous,  and  his  gains  so  considerable, 
that,  in  the  words  of  the  old  ballad,  "  He  set  his  heart 
to  gather  gold" ;  and  to  this  absorbing  passion  he  sac 
rificed  his  domestic  happiness.  The  death  of  his  wife, 
about  four  years  after  his  departure,  undoubtedly  con 
tributed  to  give  him  a  sort  of  dread  of  returning, 
which  it  required  a  strong  effort  to  overcome.  The 
welfare  of  his  only  child  he  knew  would  be  little  af 
fected  by  this  event ;  for  she  was  under  the  protection 
of  his  sister,  of  whose  tenderness  he  was  well  assured. 
But,  after  a  few  more  years,  this  sister,  also,  was 
taken  away  by  death ;  and  then  the  father  felt  that 
duty  imperatively  called  upon  him  to  return.  He  re 
alized,  on  a  sudden,  how  much  of  life  he  had  thrown 
away  in  the  acquisition  of  what  is  only  valuable  as  it 
contributes  to  the  happiness  of  life,  and  how  short  a 
time  was  left  him  for  life's  true  enjoyments.  Still, 
however,  his  mercantile  habits  were  too  deeply  seated 
to  allow  him  to  hazard  his  present  prosperity  by  any 


80  FANSHAWE. 

hasty  measures ;  nor  was  Mr.  Langton,  though  capa 
ble  of  strong  affections,  naturally  liable  to  manifest 
them  violently.  It  was  probable,  therefore,  that  many 
months  might  yet  elapse  before  he  would  again  tread 
the  shores  of  his  native  country. 

But  the  distant  relative,  in  whose  family,  since  the 
death  of  her  aunt,  Ellen  Langton  had  remained,  had 
been  long  at  variance  with  her  father,  and  had  unwill 
ingly  assumed  the  office  of  her  protector.  Mr.  Lang- 
toii's  request,  therefore,  to  Dr.  Melmoth,  was,  that  his 
ancient  friend  (one  of  the  few  friends  that  time  had 
left  him)  would  be  as  a  father  to  his  daughter  till  he 
could  himself  relieve  him  of  the  charge. 

The  doctor,  after  perusing  the  epistle  of  his  friend, 
lost  no  time  in  laying  it  before  Mrs.  Melmoth,  though 
this  was,  in  truth,  one  of  the  very  few  occasions  on 
which  he  had  determined  that  his  will  should  be  abso 
lute  law.  The  lady  was  quick  to  perceive  the  firmness 
of  his  purpose,  and  would  not  (even  had  she  been  par 
ticularly  averse  to  the  proposed  measure)  hazard  her 
usual  authority  by  a  fruitless  opposition.  But,  by 
long  disuse,  she  had  lost  the  power  of  consenting  gra 
ciously  to  any  wish  of  her  husband's. 

"  I  see  your  heart  is  set  upon  this  matter,"  she  ob 
served  ;  "  and,  in  truth,  I  fear  we  cannot  decently  re- 
,fuse  Mr.  Langton's  request.  I  see  little  good  of  such 
a  friend,  doctor,  who  never  lets  one  know  he  is  alive 
till  he  has  a  favor  to  ask." 

"  Nay ;  but  I  have  received  much  good  at  his  hand," 
replied  Dr.  Melmoth  ;  "  and,  if  he  asked  more  of  me, 
it  should  be  done  with  a  willing  heart.  I  remember 
in  my  youth,  when  my  worldly  goods  were  few  and  ill 
managed  (I  was  a  bachelor,  then,  dearest  Sarah,  with 
none  to  look  after  my  household),  how  many  times  I 


FANSHAWE.  81 

have  been  beholden  to  him.  And  see  —  in  his  letter 
he  speaks  of  presents,  of  the  produce  of  the  country, 
which  he  has  sent  both  to  you  and  me." 

"  If  the  girl  were  country-bred,"  continued  the  lady, 
"  we  might  give  her  house-room,  and  no  harm  done. 
Nay,  she  might  even  be  a  help  to  me ;  for  Esther,  our 
maid-servant,  leaves  us  at  the  month's  end.  But  I 
warrant  she  knows  as  little  of  household  matters  as 
you  do  yourself,  doctor." 

"  My  friend's  sister  was  well  grounded  in  the  re 
familiari"  answered  her  husband  ;  "  and  doubtless 
she  hath  imparted  somewhat  of  her  skill  to  this  dam 
sel.  Besides,  the  child  is  of  tender  years,  and  will 
profit  much  by  your  instruction  and  mine." 

"  The  child  is  eighteen  years  of  age,  doctor,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Melmoth, "  and  she  has  cause  to  be  thank 
ful  that  she  will  have  better  instruction  than  yours." 

This  was  a  proposition  that  Dr.  Melmoth  did  not 
choose  to  dispute  ;  though  he  perhaps  thought  that  his 
long  and  successful  experience  in  the  education  of  the 
other  sex  might  make  him  an  able  coadjutor  to  his  wife 
in  the  care  of  Ellen  Langton.  He  determined  to  jour 
ney  in  person  to  the  seaport  where  his  young  charge 
resided,  leaving  the  concerns  of  Harley  College  to  the 
direction  of  the  two  tutors.  Mrs.  Melmoth,  who,  in 
deed,  anticipated  with  pleasure  the  arrival  of  a  new 
subject  to  her  authority,  threw  no  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  his  intention.  To  do  her  justice,  her  prepara 
tions  for  his  journey,  and  the  minute  instructions  with 
which  she  favored  him,  were  such  as  only  a  woman's 
true  affection  could  have  suggested.  The  traveller 
met  with  no  incidents  important  to  this  tale  ;  and, 
after  an  absence  of  about  a  fortnight,  he  and  Ellen 
Langton  alighted  from  their  steeds  (for  on  horseback 


82  FANS  HA  WE. 

had  the  journey  been  performed)  in  safety  at  his  own 
door. 

If  pen  could  give  an  adequate  idea  of  Ellen  Lang- 
ton's  loveliness,  it  would  achieve  what  pencil  (the  pen 
cils,  at  least,  of  the  colonial  artists  who  attempted  it) 
never  could ;  for,  though  the  dark  eyes  might  be 
painted,  the  pure  and  pleasant  thoughts  that  peeped 
through  them  could  only  be  seen  and  felt.  But  de 
scriptions  of  beauty  are  never  satisfactory.  It  must, 
therefore,  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  to 
conceive  of  something  not  more  than  mortal,  nor,  in 
deed,  quite  the  perfection  of  mortality,  but  charming 
men  the  more,  because  they  felt,  that,  lovely  as  she 
was,  she  was  of  like  nature  to  themselves. 

From  the  time  that  Ellen  entered  Dr.  Melmoth's 
habitation,  the  sunny  days  seemed  brighter  and  the 
cloudy  ones  less  gloomy,  than  he  had  ever  before 
known  them.  He  naturally  delighted  in  children ; 
and  Ellen,  though  her  years  approached  to  woman 
hood,  had  yet  much  of  the  gayety  and  simple  happi 
ness,  because  the  innocence,  of  a  child.  She  conse 
quently  became  the  very  blessing  of  his  life,  —  the 
rich  recreation  that  he  promised  himself  for  hours  of 
literary  toil.  On  one  occasion,  indeed,  he  even  made 
her  his  companion  in  the  sacred  retreat  of  his  study, 
with  the  purpose  of  entering  upon  a  course  of  instruc 
tion  in  the  learned  languages.  This  measure,  how 
ever,  he  found  inexpedient  to  repeat ;  for  Ellen,  hav 
ing  discovered  an  old  romance  among  his  heavy  folios, 
contrived,  by  the  charm  of  her  sweet  voice,  to  engage 
his  attention  therein  till  all  more  important  concerns 
were  forgotten. 

With  Mrs.  Melmoth,  Ellen  was  not,  of  course,  so 
great  a  favorite  as  with  her  husband ;  for  women  can- 


FANSHAWE.  83 

not,  so  readily  as  men,  bestow  upon  the  offspring  of 
others  those  affections  that  nature  intended  for  their 
own  ;  and  the  doctor's  extraordinary  partiality  was 
anything  rather  than  a  pledge  of  his  wife's.  But  El 
len  differed  so  far  from  the  idea  she  had  previously 
formed  of  her,  as  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  principal 
merchants,  who  were  then,  as  now,  like  nobles  in  the 
land,  that  the  stock  of  dislike  which  Mrs.  Melmoth 
had  provided  was  found  to  be  totally  inapplicable. 
The  young  stranger  strove  so  hard,  too  (and  undoubt 
edly  it  was  a  pleasant  labor),  to  win  her  love,  that  she 
was  successful  to  a  degree  of  which  the  lady  herself 
was  not,  perhaps,  aware.  It  was  soon  seen  that  her 
education  had  not  been  neglected  in  those  points 
which  Mrs.  Melmoth  deemed  most  important.  The 
nicer  departments  of  cookery,  after  sufficient  proof  of 
her  skill,  were  committed  to  her  care ;  and  the  doctor's 
table  was  now  covered  with  delicacies,  simple  indeed, 
but  as  tempting  on  account  of  their  intrinsic  excel 
lence  as  of  the  small  white  hands  that  made  them. 
By  such  arts  as  these,  —  which  in  her  were  no  arts, 
but  the  dictates  of  an  affectionate  disposition,  —  by 
making  herself  useful  where  it  was  possible,  and 
agreeable  on  all  occasions,  Ellen  gained  the  love  of 
everyone  within  the  sphere  of  her  influence. 

But  the  maiden's  conquests  were  not  confined  to  the 
members  of  Dr.  Melmoth's  family.  She  had  numer 
ous  admirers  among  those  whose  situation  compelled 
them  to  stand  afar  off,  and  gaze  upon  her  loveliness, 
as  if  she  were  a  star,  whose  brightness  they  saw,  but 
whose  warmth  they  could  not  feel.  These  were  the 
young  men  of  Harley  College,  whose  chief  opportuni 
ties  of  beholding  Ellen  were  upon  the  Sabbaths,  when 
she  worshipped  with  them  in  the  little  chapel,  which 


84  FANS  HA  WE. 

served  the  purposes  of  a  church  to  all  the  families  of 
the  vicinity.  There  was,  about  this  period  (and  the 
fact  was  undoubtedly  attributable  to  Ellen's  influ 
ence,)  a  general  and  very  evident  decline  in  the  schol 
arship  of  the  college,  especially  in  regard  to  the  se 
verer  studies.  The  intellectual  powers  of  the  young 
men  seemed  to  be  directed  chiefly  to  the  construction 
of  Latin  and  Greek  verse,  many  copies  of  which,  with 
a  characteristic  and  classic  gallantry,  were  strewn  in 
the  path  where  Ellen  Langton  was  accustomed  to 
walk.  They,  however,  produced  no  perceptible  effect ; 
nor  were  the  aspirations  of  another  ambitious  youth, 
who  celebrated  her  perfections  in  Hebrew,  attended 
with  their  merited  success. 

But  there  was  one  young  man,  to  whom  circum 
stances,  independent  of  his  personal  advantages,  af 
forded  a  superior  opportunity  of  gaming  Ellen's  fa 
vor.  He  was  nearly  related  to  Dr.  Melmoth,  on 
which  account  he  received  his  education  at  Harley 
College,  rather  than  at  one  of  the  English  universities, 
to  the  expenses  of  which  his  fortune  would  have  been 
adequate.  This  connection  entitled  him  to  a  frequent 
and  familiar  access  to  the  domestic  hearth  of  the  dig 
nitary,  —  an  advantage  of  which,  since  Ellen  Langton 
became  a  member  of  the  family,  he  very  constantly 
availed  himself. 

Edward  Walcott  was  certainly  much  superior,  in 
most  of  the  particulars  of  which  a  lady  takes  cogni 
zance,  to  those  of  his  fellow -students  who  had  come 
under  Ellen's  notice.  He  was  tall ;  and  the  natural 
grace  of  his  manners  had  been  improved  (an  advan 
tage  which  few  of  his  associates  could  boast)  by  early 
intercourse  with  polished  society.  His  features,  also, 
were  handsome,  and  promised  to  be  manly  and  d^gni- 


FANSHAWE.  85 

fiecl  when  they  should  cease  to  be  youthful.  His  char 
acter  as  a  scholar  was  more  than  respectable,  though 
many  youthful  follies,  sometimes,  perhaps,  approach 
ing  near  to  vices,  were  laid  to  his  charge.  But  his  oc 
casional  derelictions  from  discipline  were  not  such  as 
to  create  any  very  serious  apprehensions  respecting  his 
future  welfare ;  nor  were  they  greater  than,  perhaps, 
might  be  expected  from  a  young  man  who  possessed  a 
considerable  command  of  money,  and  who  was,  besides, 
the  fine  gentleman  of  the  little  community  of  which  he 
was  a  member,  - —  a  character  which  generally  leads  its 
possessor  into  follies  that  he  would  otherwise  have 
avoided. 

With  this  youth  Ellen  Langton  became  familiar, 
and  even  intimate  ;  for  he  was  her  only  companion,  of 
an  age  suited  to  her  own,  and  the  difference  of  sex  did 
not  occur  to  her  as  an  objection.  He  was  her  constant 
companion  on  all  necessary  and  allowable  occasions, 
and  drew  upon  himself,  in  consequence,  the  envy  of 
the  college. 


CHAPTER  II. 

'*  Why,  all  delights  are  vain,  but  that  most  vain, 
Which,  with  pain  purchased,  doth  inherit  pain: 
As  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth,  while  truth,  the  while, 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look." 

SHAKESPEARE. 

ON  one  of  the  afternoons  which  afforded  to  the 
students  a  relaxation  from  their  usual  labors,  Ellen 
was  attended  by  her  cavalier  in  a  little  excursion  over 
the  rough  bridle-roads  that  led  from  her  new  residence. 
She  was  an  experienced  equestrian,  —  a  necessary  ac 
complishment  at  that  period,  when  vehicles  of  every 
kind  were  rare.  It  was  now  the  latter  end  of  spring ; 
but  the  season  had  hitherto  been  backward,  with  only 
a  few  warm  and  pleasant  days.  The  present  after 
noon,  however,  was  a  delicious  mingling  of  spring  and 
summer,  forming  in  their  union  an  atmosphere  so 
mild  and  pure,  that  to  breathe  was  almost  a  positive 
happiness.  There  was  a  little  alternation  of  cloud 
across  the  brow  of  heaven,  but  only  so  much  as  to 
render  the  sunshine  more  delightful. 

The  path  of  the  young  travellers  lay  sometimes 
among  tall  and  thick  standing  trees,  and  sometimes 
over  naked  and  desolate  hills,  whence  man  had  taken 
the  natural  vegetation,  and  then  left  the  soil  to  its 
barrenness.  Indeed,  there  is  little  inducement  to  a 
cultivator  to  labor  among  the  huge  stones  which  there 
peep  forth  from  the  earth,  seeming  to  form  a  con 
tinued  ledge  for  several  miles.  A  singular  contrast 


FANSHAWE.  87 

to  this  unfavored  tract  of  country  is  seen  in  the  nar 
row  but  luxuriant,  though  sometimes  swampy,  strip  of 
interval,  on  both  sides  of  the  stream,  that,  as  has  been 
noticed,  flows  down  the  valley.  The  light  and  buoy 
ant  spirits  of  Edward  Walcott  and  Ellen  rose  higher 
as  they  rode  on ;  and  their  way  was  enlivened,  wher 
ever  its  roughness  did  not  forbid,  by  their  conversa 
tion  and  pleasant  laughter.  But  at  length  Ellen  drew 
her  bridle,  as  they  emerged  from  a  thick  portion  of 
the  forest,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  hill. 

u  We  must  have  ridden  far,"  she  observed,  —  "  far 
ther  than  I  thought.  It  will  be  near  sunset  before  we 
can  reach  home." 

"  There  are  still  several  hours  of  daylight,"  replied 
Edward  Walcott ;  "  and  we  will  not  turn  back  with 
out  ascending  this  hill.  The  prospect  from  the  sum 
mit  is  beautifid,  and  will  be  particularly  so  now,  in 
this  rich  sunlight.  Come,  Ellen,  —  one  light  touch  of 
the  whip,  —  your  pony  is  as  fresh  as  when  we  started." 

On  reaching  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  looking 
back  in  the  direction  in  which  they  had  come,  they 
could  see  the  little  stream,  peeping  forth  many  times 
to  the  daylight,  and  then  shrinking  back  into  the 
shade.  Farther  on,  it  became  broad  and  deep,  though 
rendered  incapable  of  navigation,  in  this  part  of  its 
course,  by  the  occasional  interruption  of  rapids. 

"  There  are  hidden  wonders  of  rock  and  precipice 
and  cave,  in  that  dark  forest,"  said  Edward,  pointing 
to  the  space  between  them  and  the  river.  "  If  it  were 
earlier  in  the  day,  I  should  love  to  lead  you  there. 
Shall  we  try  the  adventure  now,  Ellen  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  !  "  she  replied.  "  Let  us  delay  no  longer. 
I  fear  I  must  even  now  abide  a  rebuke  from  Mrs.  Mel- 
moth,  which  I  have  surely  deserved.  But  who  is  this, 
who  rides  on  so  slowly  before  us  ?  " 


88  FANS  HA  WE. 

She  pointed  to  a  horseman,  whom  they  had  not  be 
fore  observed.  He  was  descending  the  hill;  but,  as 
his  steed  seemed  to  have  chosen  his  own  pace,  he  made 
a  very  inconsiderable  progress. 

"  Oh,  do  you  not  know  him  ?  But  it  is  scarcely  pos 
sible  you  should,"  exclaimed  her  companion.  "  We 
must  do  him  the  good  office,  Ellen,  of  stopping  his 
progress,  or  he  will  find  himself  at  the  village,  a  dozen 
miles  farther  on,  before  he  resumes  his  consciousness." 

"Has  he  then  lost  his  senses?  "  inquired  Miss  Lang- 
ton. 

"  Not  so,  Ellen,  —  if  much  learning  has  not  made 
him  mad,"  replied  Edward  Walcott.  "  He  is  a  deep 
scholar  and  a  noble  fellow  ;  but  I  fear  we  shall  follow 
him  to  his  grave  erelong.  Dr.  Melmoth  has  sent  him 
to  ride  in  pursuit  of  his  health.  He  will  never  over 
take  it,  however,  at  this  pace." 

As  he  spoke,  they  had  approached  close  to  the  sub 
ject  of  their  conversation ;  and  Ellen  had  a  moment's 
space  for  observation  before  he  started  from  the  ab 
straction  in  which  he  was  plunged.  The  result  of  her 
scrutiny  was  favorable,  yet  very  painful. 

The  stranger  could  scarcely  have  attained  his  twen 
tieth  year,  and  was  possessed  of  a  face  and  form  such 
as  Nature  bestows  on  none  but  her  favorites.  There 
was  a  nobleness  on  his  high  forehead,  which  time 
would  have  deepened  into  majesty;  and  all  his  fea 
tures  were  formed  with  a  strength  and  boldness,  of 
which  the  paleness,  produced  by  study  and  confine 
ment,  could  not  deprive  them.  The  expression  of  his 
countenance  was  not  a  melancholy  one :  on  the  con 
trary,  it  was  proud  and  high,  perhaps  triumphant,  like 
one  who  was  a  ruler  in  a  world  of  his  own,  and  inde 
pendent  of  the  beings  that  surrounded  him.  But  9 


FANSHAWE.  89 

blight,  of  which  his  thin  pale  cheek,  and  the  brightness 
of  his  eye,  were  alike  proofs,  seemed  to  have  come  over 
him  ere  his  maturity. 

The  scholar's  attention  was  now  aroused  by  the  hoof- 
tramps  at  his  side ;  and,  starting,  he  fixed  his  eves  on 
Ellen,  whose  young  and  lovely  countenance  was  full 
of  the  interest  he  had  excited.  A  deep  blush  immedi 
ately  suffused  his  cheek,  proving  how  well  the  glow 
of  health  wotdd  have  become  it.  There  was  nothino- 

O 

awkward,  however,  in  his  manner ;  and,  soon  recov 
ering  his  self-possession,  he  bowed  to  her,  and  would 
have  rode  on. 

"Your  ride  is  unusually  long  to-day,  Fanshawe," 
observed  Edward  Walcott.  "  When  may  we  look  for 
your  return  ?  " 

The  young  man  again  blushed,  but  answered,  with  a 
smile  that  had  a  beautiful  effect  upon  his  countenance, 
"  I  was  not,  at  the  moment,  aware  in  which  direction 
my  horse's  head  was  turned.  I  have  to  thank  you  for 
arresting  me  in  a  journey  which  was  likely  to  prove 
much  longer  than  I  intended.*' 

The  party  had  now  turned  their  horses,  and  were 
about  to  resume  their  ride  in  a  homeward  direction ; 
but  Edward  perceived  that  Fanshawe,  having  lost  the 
excitement  of  intense  thought,  now  looked  weary  and 
dispirited. 

"  Here  is  a  cottage  close  at  hand,"  he  observed. 
"  We  have  ridden  far,  and  stand  in  need  of  refresh 
ment.  Ellen,  shall  we  alight  ?  " 

She  saw  the  benevolent  motive  of  his  proposal,  and 
did  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  it.  But,  as  they  paused 
at  the  cottage  door,  she  could  not  but  observe  that  its 
exterior  promised  few  of  the  comforts  which  they  re 
quired.  Time  and  neglect  seemed  to  have  conspired 


90  FANSIIAWE. 

for  its  ruin  ;  and,  but  for  a  thin  curl  of  smoke  from  its 
clay  chimney,  they  could  not  have  believed  it  to  be  in 
habited.  A  considerable  tract  of  land  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  cottage  had  evidently  been,  at  some  former  pe 
riod,  under  cultivation,  but  was  now  overrun  by  bushes 
and  dwarf  pines,  among  which  many  huge  gray  rocks, 
ineradicable  by  human  art,  endeavored  to  conceal 
themselves.  About  half  an  acre  of  ground  was  occu 
pied  by  the  young  blades  of  Indian-corn,  at  which  a 
half-starved  cow  gazed  wistfully  over  the  mouldering 
log -fence.  These  were  the  only  agricultural  tokens. 
Edward  Walcott,  nevertheless,  drew  the  latch  of  the 
cottage  door,  after  knocking  loudly  but  in  vain. 

The  apartment  which  was  thus  opened  to  their  view 
was  quite  as  wretched  as  its  exterior  had  given  them 
reason  to  anticipate.  Poverty  was  there,  with  all  its 
necessary  and  unnecessary  concomitants.  The  intrud 
ers  would  have  retired  had  not  the  hope  of  affording 
relief  detained  them. 

The  occupants  of  the  small  and  squalid  apartment 
were  two  women,  both  of  them  elderly,  and,  from  the 
resemblance  of  their  features,  appearing  to  be  sisters. 
The  expression  of  their  countenances,  however,  was 
very  different.  One,  evidently  the  younger,  was  seated 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  large  hearth,  opposite  to  the 
door  at  which  the  party  stood.  She  had  the  sallow 
look  of  long  and  wasting  illness;  and  there  was  an 
unsteadiness  of  expression  about  her  eyes,  that  imme 
diately  struck  the  observer.  Yet  her  face  was  mild 
and  gentle,  therein  contrasting  widely  with  that  of  her 
companion. 

The  other  woman  was  bending  over  a  small  fire  of 
decayed  branches,  the  flame  of  which  was  very  dispro 
portionate  to  the  smoke,  scarcely  producing  heat'«uffi- 


FA  XS HA  WE.  91 

cient  for  the  preparation  of  a  scanty  portion  of  food. 
Her  profile  only  was  visible  to  the  strangers,  though, 
from  a  slight  motion  of  her  eye,  they  perceived  that 
she  was  aware  of  their  presence.  Her  features  were 
pinched  and  spare,  and  wore  a  look  of  sullen  discon 
tent,  for  which  the  evident  wretchedness  of  her  situ 
ation  afforded  a  sufficient  reason.  Tins  female,  not 
withstanding  her  years,  and  the  habitual  fretfulness 
(that  is  more  wearing  than  time),  was  apparently 
healthy  and  robust,  with  a  dry,  leathery  complexion. 
A  short  space  elapsed  before  she  thought  proper  to 
turn  her  face  towards  her  visitors ;  and  she  then  re 
garded  them  with  a  lowering  eye,  without  speaking,  or 
rising  from  her  chair. 

"  We  entered,"  Edward  Waleott  began  to  say,  u  in 
the  hope  " —  But  he  paused,  on  perceiving  that  the 
sick  woman  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and  with  slow 
and  tottering  footsteps  was  drawing  near  to  him.  She 
took  his  hand  in  both  her  own  :  and,  though  he  shud 
dered  at  the  touch  of  age  and  disease,  he  did  not  at 
tempt  to  withdraw  it.  She  then  perused  all  his  fea 
tures,  with  an  expression,  at  first  of  eager  and  hopeful 
anxiety,  which  faded  by  degrees  into  disappointment. 
Then,  turning  from  him,  she  gazed  into  Fanshawe's 
countenance  with  the  like  eagerness,  but  with  the 
same  result.  Lastly,  tottering  back  to  her  chair,  she 
hid  her  face  and  wept  bitterly.  The  strangers,  though 
they  knew  not  the  cause  of  her  grief,  were  deeply  af 
fected  ;  and  Ellen  approached  the  mourner  with  words 
of  comfort,  which,  more  from  their  tone  than  their 
meaning,  produced  a  transient  effect. 

"  Do  you  bring  news  of  him  ?  "  she  inquired,  raising 
her  head.  "  Will  he  return  to  me  ?  Shall  I  see  him 
before  I  die  ?  "  Ellen  knew  not  what  to  answer  ;  and, 


92  FANSHAWE. 

ere  she  could  attempt  it,  the  other  female  prevented 
her. 

"  Sister  Butler  is  wandering  in  her  mind,"  she  said, 
"  and  speaks  of  one  she  will  never  behold  again.  The 
sight  of  strangers  disturbs  her,  and  you  see  we  have 
nothing  here  to  offer  you." 

The  manner  of  the  woman  was  ungracious  ;  but  her 
words  were  true.  They  saw  that  their  presence  could 
do  nothing  towards  the  alleviation  of  the  misery  they 
witnessed  ;  and  they  felt  that  mere  curiosity  would  not 
authorize  a  longer  intrusion.  So  soon,  therefore,  as 
they  had  relieved,  according  to  their  power,  the  pov 
erty  that  seemed  to  be  the  least  evil  of  this  cottage, 
they  emerged  into  the  open  air. 

The  breath  of  heaven  felt  sweet  to  them,  and  re 
moved  a  part  of  the  weight  from  their  young  hearts, 
which  were  saddened  by  the  sight  of  so  much  wretch 
edness.  Perceiving  a  pure  and  bright  little  fountain 
at  a  short  distance  from  the  cottage,  they  approached 
it,  and,  using  the  bark  of  a  birch-tree  as  a  cup,  par 
took  of  its  cool  waters.  They  then  pursued  their 
homeward  ride  with  such  diligence,  that,  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting,  they  came  in  sight  of  the  humble 
wooden  edifice  which  was  dignified  with  the  name  of 
Harley  College.  A  golden  ray  rested  upon  the  spire 
of  the  little  chapel,  the  bell  of  which  sent  its  tinkling 
murmur  down  the  valley  to  summon  the  wanderers  to 
evening  prayers. 

Fanshawe  returned  to  his  chamber  that  night,  and 
lighted  his  lamp  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do.  The 
books  were  around  him  which  had  hitherto  been  to 
him  like  those  fabled  volumes  of  Magic,  from  which 
the  reader  could  not  turn  away  his  eye  till  death  were 
the  consequence  of  his  studies.  But  there  were  miac- 


FANS  HA  WE.  93 

customed  thoughts  in  his  bosom  now  ;  and  to  these, 
leaning  his  head  on  one  of  the  unopened  volumes,  he 
resigned  himself. 

He  called  up  in  review  the  years,  that,  even  at  his 
early  age,  he  had  spent  in  solitary  study,  in  conversa 
tion  with  the  dead,  while  he  had  scorned  to  mingle 
with  the  living  world,  or  to  be  actuated  by  any  of  its 
motives.  He  asked  himself  to  what  purpose  was  all 
this  destructive  labor,  and  where  was  the  happiness  of 
superior  knowledge.  He  had  climbed  but  a  few  steps 
of  a  ladder  that  reached  to  infinity:  he  had  thrown 
away  his  life  in  discovering,  that,  after  a  thousand 
such  lives,  he  should  still  know  comparatively  nothing. 
He  even  looked  forward  with  dread  —  though  once 
the  thought  had  been  dear  to  him  —  to  the  eternity  of 
improvement  that  lay  before  him.  It  seemed  now  a 
weary  way,  without  a  resting-place  and  without  a  ter 
mination  ;  and  at  that  moment  he  would  have  pre 
ferred  the  dreamless  sleep  of  the  brutes  that  perish  to 
man's  proudest  attribute,  —  of  immortality. 

Fanshawe  had  hitherto  deemed  himself  unconnected 
with  the  world,  unconcerned  in  its  feelings,  and  unin 
fluenced  by  it  in  any  of  his  pursuits.  In  this  respect 
he  probably  deceived  himself.  If  his  inmost  heart 
coidd  have  been  laid  open,  there  would  have  been  dis 
covered  that  dream  of  imdvinsr  fame,  which,  dream 

«.  O 

as  it  is,  is  more  powerful  than  a  thousand  realities. 
But,  at  any  rate,  he  had  seemed,  to  others  and  to  him 
self,  a  solitary  being,  upon  whom  the  hopes  and  fears 
of  ordinary  men  were  ineffectual. 

But  now  he  felt  the  first  thrilling  of  one  of  the 
many  ties,  that,  so  long  as  we  breathe  the  common  air, 
(and  who  shall  say  how  much  longer?)  unite  us  to  our 
kind.  The  sound  of  a  soft,  sweet  voice,  the  glance  of 


94  FANS  HA  WE. 

a  gentle  eye,  had  wrought  a  change  upon  him  ;  and  in 
his  ardent  mind  a  few  hours  had  done  the  work  of 
many.  Almost  in  spite  of  himself,  the  new  sensation 
was  inexpressibly  delightful.  The  recollection  of  his 
ruined  health,  of  his  habits  (so  much  at  variance  with 
those  of  the  world),  —  all  the  difficulties  that  reason, 
suggested,  were  inadequate  to  check  the  exulting  tide 
of  hope  and  joy. 


CHAPTER   III. 

**  And  let  the  aspiring  youth  beware  of  love,  — 
Of  the  smooth  glance  beware  ;  for  't  is  too  late 
When  on  his  heart  the  torrent  softness  pours  ; 
Then  wisdom  prostrate  lies,  and  fading  fame 
Dissolves  in  air  away."  THOMSON. 

A  FEW  months  passed  over  the  heads  of  Ellen 
Langton  and  her  admirers,  unproductive  of  events, 
that,  separately,  were  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
related.  The  summer  was  now  drawing  to  a  close  ; 
and  Dr.  Melmoth  had  received  information  that  his 
friend's  arrangements  were  nearly  completed,  and  that 
by  the  next  home-bound  ship  he  hoped  to  return  to  his 
native  country.  The  arrival  of  that  ship  was  daily 
expected. 

During  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since  his  first 
meeting  with  Ellen,  there  had  been  a  change,  yet  not 
a  very  remarkable  one,  in  Fanshawe's  habits.  He 
was  still  the  same  solitary  being,  so  far  as  regarded 
his  own  sex  ;  and  he  still  confined  himself  as  sedu 
lously  to  his  chamber,  except  for  one  hour  —  the  sun 
set  hour  —  of  every  day.  At  that  period,  unless  pre 
vented  by  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  he  was  ac 
customed  to  tread  a  path  that  wound  along  the  banks 
of  the  stream.  He  had  discovered  that  this  was  the 
most  frequent  scene  of  Ellen's  walks ;  and  this  it  was 
that  drew  him  thither. 

Their  intercourse  was  at  first  extremely  slight,  —  a 
bow  on  the  one  side,  a  smile  on  the  other,  and  a  pass 
ing  word  from  both;  and  then  the  student  hurried 


96  FANS  HA  WE. 

back  to  his  solitude.  But,  in  course  of  time,  oppoiv 
tunities  occurred  for  more  extended  conversation  ;  so 
that,  at  the  period  with  which  this  chapter  is  con 
cerned,  Fanshawe  was,  almost  as  constantly  as  Edward 
Walcott  himself,  the  companion  of  Ellen's  walks. 

His  passion  had  strengthened  more  than  proportion 
ably  to  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since  it  was  con 
ceived ;  but  the  first  glow  and  excitement  which  at 
tended  it  had  now  vanished.  He  had  reasoned  calmly 
with  himself,  and  rendered  evident  to  his  own  mind 
the  almost  utter  hopelessness  of  success.  He  had  also 
made  his  resolution  strong,  that  he  would  not  even  en 
deavor  to  win  Ellen's  love,  the  result  of  which,  for  a 
thousand  reasons,  could  not  be  happiness.  Firm  in 
this  determination,  and  confident  of  his  power  to  ad 
here  to  it ;  feeling,  also,  that  time  and  absence  could 
not  cure  his  own  passion,  and  having  no  desire  for 
such  a  cure,  —  he  saw  no  reason  for  breaking  off  the 
intercourse  that  was  established  between  Ellen  and 
himself.  It  was  remarkable,  that,  notwithstanding 
the  desperate  nature  of  his  love,  that,  or  something 
connected  with  it,  seemed  to  have  a  beneficial  effect 
upon  his  health.  There  was  now  a  slight  tinge  of 
color  in  his  cheek,  and  a  less  consuming  brightness  in 
his  eye.  Could  it  be  that  hope,  unknown  to  himself, 
was  yet  alive  in  his  breast ;  that  a  sense  of  the  possi 
bility  of  earthly  happiness  was  redeeming  him  from 
the  grave  ? 

Had  the  character  of  Ellen  Langton's  mind  been 
different,  there  might,  perhaps,  have  been  danger  to 
her  from  an  intercourse  of  this  nature  with  such  a  be- 
ing  as  Fanshawe ;  for  he  was  distinguished  by  many 
of  those  asperities  around  which  a  woman's  affection 
will  often  cling.  But  she  was  formed  to  walk  in  the 


FANS  HA  WE.  97 

calm  and  quiet  paths  of  life,  and  to  pluck  the  flowers 
of  happiness  from  the  wayside  where  they  grow.  Sin 
gularity  of  character,  therefore,  was  not  calculated  to 
win  her  love.  She  undoubtedly  felt  an  interest  in  the 
solitary  student,  and  perceiving,  with  no  great  exercise 
of  vanity,  that  her  society  drew  him  from  the  destruc 
tive  intensity  of  his  studies,  she  perhaps  felt  it  a  duty 
to  exert  her  influence.  But  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  her  influence  had  been  sufficiently  strong  to 
change  the  whole  current  of  his  thoughts  and  feel 
ings. 

Ellen  and  her  two  lovers  (for  both,  though  perhaps 
not  equally,  deserved  that  epithet)  had  met,  as  usual, 
at  the  close  of  a  sweet  summer  day,  and  were  standing 
by  the  side  of  the  stream,  just  where  it  swept  into  a 
deep  pool.  The  current,  undermining  the  bank,  had 
formed  a  recess,  which,  according  to  Edward  AValcott, 
afforded  at  that  moment  a  hiding-place  to  a  trout  of 
noble  size. 

"  Now  would  I  give  the  world,"  he  exclaimed  with 
great  interest,  "  for  a  hook  and  line,  a  fish-spear,  or 
any  piscatorial  instrument  of  death !  Look,  Ellen, 
you  can  see  the  waving  of  his  tail  from  beneath  the 
bank!" 

"  If  you  had  the  means  of  taking  him,  I  should  save 
him  from  your  cruelty,  thus,"  said  Ellen,  dropping  a 
pebble  into  the  water,  just  over  the  fish.  "  There  !  he 
has  darted  down  the  stream.  How  many  pleasant 
caves  and  recesses  there  must  be  under  these  banks, 
where  he  may  be  happy  I  May  there  not  be  happi 
ness  in  the  life  of  a  fish  ?  "  she  added,  turning  with  a 
smile  to  Fanshawe. 

"  There  may,"  he  replied,  "  so  long  as  he  lives 
quietly  in  the  caves  and  recesses  of  which  you  speak, 


98  FANSHAWE. 

Yes,  there  may  be  happiness,  though  such  as  few 
would  envy ;  but,  then,  the  hook  and  line  " — 

"  Which,  there  is  reason  to  apprehend,  will  shortly 
destroy  the  happiness  of  our  friend  the  trout,"  inter 
rupted  Edward,  pointing  down  the  stream.  "  There 
is  an  angler  on  his  way  towrard  us,  who  will  intercept 
him." 

"  He  seems  to  care  little  for  the  sport,  to  judge  by 
the  pace  at  which  he  walks,"  said  Ellen. 

"  But  he  sees,  now,  that  we  are  observing  him,  and 
is  willing  to  prove  that  he  knows  something  of  the 
art,"  replied  Edward  Walcott.  "  I  should  think  him 
well  acquainted  with  the  stream ;  for,  hastily  as  he 
walks,  he  has  tried  every  pool  and  ripple  where  a  fish 
usually  hides.  But  that  point  will  be  decided  when 
he  reaches  yonder  old  bare  oak-tree." 

"And  how  is  the  old  tree  to  decide  the  question?" 
inquired  Fanshawe.  "It  is  a  species  of  evidence  of 
which  I  have  never  before  heard." 

"  The  stream  has  worn  a  hollow  under  its  roots," 
answered  Edward,  —  "a  most  delicate  retreat  for  a 
trout.  Now,  a  stranger  would  not  discover  the  spot ; 
or,  if  he  did,  the  probable  result  of  a  cast  would  be 
the  loss  of  hook  and  line,  —  an  accident  that  has  oc 
curred  to  me  more  than  once.  If,  therefore,  this 
angler  takes  a  fish  from  thence,  it  follows  that  he 
knows  the  stream." 

They  observed  the  fisher,  accordingly,  as  he  kept 
his  way  up  the  bank.  He  did  not  pause  when  he 
reached  the  old  leafless  oak,  that  formed  with  its  roots 
an  obstruction  very  common  in  American  streams  ; 
but,  throwing  his  line  with  involuntary  skill  as  he 
passed,  he  not  only  escaped  the  various  entanglements, 
but  drew  forth  a  fine  large  fish.  .  ,4 


FANS  HA  WE.  99 

44  There,  Ellen,  he  has  captivated  your  protecj£,  the 
trout,  or,  at  least,  one  very  like  him  in  size,"  observed 
Edward.  4i  It  is  singular,*'  he  added,  gazing  earnestly 
at  the  man. 

"  Why  is  it  singular  ?  "  inquired  Ellen  Langton. 
"Tin's  person,  perhaps,  resides  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  may  have  fished  often  in  the  stream." 

44  Do  but  look  at  him,  Ellen,  and  judge  whether  his 
life  can  have  been  spent  in  this  lonely  valley,"  he  re 
plied.  k'  The  glow  of  many  a  hotter  sun  than  ours  has 
darkened  his  brow ;  and  his  step  and  air  have  some 
thing  foreign  in  them,  like  what  we  see  in  sailors  who 
have  lived  more  in  other  countries  than  in  their  own. 
Is  it  not  so,  Ellen  ?  for  your  education  in  a  seaport 
must  have  given  you  skill  in  these  matters.  But  come, 
let  us  approach  nearer." 

They  walked  towards  the  angler,  accordingly,  who 
still  remained  under  the  oak,  apparently  engaged  in 
arranging  his  fishing-tackle.  As  the  party  drew  nigh, 
he  raised  his  head,  and  threw  one  quick,  scrutinizing 
glance  towards  them,  disclosing,  on  his  part,  a  set  of 
bold  and  rather  coarse  features,  weather-beaten,  but 
indicating  the  age  of  the  owner  to  be  not  above  thirty. 
In  person  he  surpassed  the  middle  size,  was  well  set, 
and  evidently  strong  and  active. 

44 Do  you  meet  with  much  success,  sir?"  inquired 
Edward  Walcott,  when  within  a  convenient  distance 
for  conversation. 

4i  I  have  taken  but  one  fish,"  replied  the  angler,  in 
an  accent  which  his  hearers  could  scarcely  determine 
to  be  foreign,  or  the  contrary.  44I  am  a  stranger  to 
the  stream,  and  have  doubtless  passed  over  many  a 
likely  place  for  sport." 

44  You  have  an  angler's  eye,  sir,"  rejoined  Edward. 


100  FANSHA  WE. 

"  I  observed  that  you  made  your  casts  as  if  you  had 
often  trod  these  banks,  and  I  could  scarcely  have 
guided  you  better  myself." 

"  Yes,  I  have  learned  the  art,  and  I  love  to  practise 
it,"  replied  the  man.  "  But  will  not  the  young  lady 
try  her  skill  ?  "  he  continued,  casting  a  bold  eye  on 
Ellen.  "  The  fish  will  love  to  be  drawn  out  by  such 
white  hands  as  those." 

Ellen  shrank  back,  though  almost  imperceptibly, 
from  the  free  bearing  of  the  man.  It  seemed  meant 
for  courtesy;  but  its  effect  was  excessively  disagree 
able.  Edward  Walcott,  who  perceived  and  coincided 
in  Ellen's  feelings,  replied  to  the  stranger's  proposal. 

"  The  young  lady  will  not  put  the  gallantry  of  the 
fish  to  the  proof,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  she  will  therefore 
have  no  occasion  for  your  own." 

"  I  shall  take  leave  to  hear  my  answer  from  the 
young  lady's  own  mouth,"  answered  the  stranger, 
haughtily.  "  If  you  will  step  this  way,  Miss  Langton  " 
(here  he  interrupted  himself),  —  "if  you  will  cast  the 
line  by  yonder  sunken  log,  I  think  you  will  meet  with 
success." 

Thus  saying,  the  angler  offered  his  rod  and  line  to 
Ellen.  She  at  first  drew  back,  then  hesitated,  but 
finally  held  out  her  hand  to  receive  them.  In  thus 
complying  with  the  stranger's  request,  she  was  ac* 
tuated  by  a  desire  to  keep  the  peace,  which,  as  her 
notice  of  Edward  Walcott' s  crimsoned  cheek  and 
flashing  eye  assured  her,  was  considerably  endangered. 
The  angler  led  the  way  to  the  spot  which  he  had 
pointed  out,  which,  though  not  at  such  a  distance  from 
Ellen's  companions  but  that  words  in  a  common  tone 
could  be  distinguished,  was  out  of  the  range  of  a 
lowered  voice. 


FANSHAWE.  101 

Edward  Walcott  and  the  student  remained  by  the 
oak  :  the  former  biting  his  lip  with  vexation  ;  the  lat 
ter,  whose  abstraction  always  vanished  where  Ellen  was 
concerned,  regarding  her  and  the  stranger  with  fixed 
and  silent  attention.  The  young  men  could  at  first 
hear  the  words  that  the  angler  addressed  to  Ellen. 
They  related  to  the  mode  of  managing  the  rod  ;  and 
she  made  one  or  two  casts  under  his  direction.  At 
length,  however,  as  if  to  offer  his  assistance,  the  man 
advanced  close  to  her  side,  and  seemed  to  speak,  but 
in  so  low  a  tone,  that  the  sense  of  what  he  uttered 
was  lost  before  it  reached  the  oak.  But  its  effect  upon 
Ellen  was  immediate  and  very  obvious.  Her  eyes 
flashed  ;  and  an  indignant  blush  rose  high  on  her 
cheek,  giving  to  her  beauty  a  haughty  brightness,  of 
which  the  gentleness  of  her  disposition  in  general  de 
prived  it.  The  next  moment,  however,  she  seemed  to 
recollect  herself,  and,  restoring  the  angling-rod  to  its 
owner,  she  turned  away  calmly,  and  approached  her 
companions. 

44  The  evening  breeze  grows  chill ;  and  mine  is  a 
dress  for  a  summer  day,"  she  observed.  "  Let  us  walk 
homeward." 

"  Miss  Langton,  is  it  the  evening  breeze  alone  that 
sends  you  homeward  ?  "  inquired  Edward. 

At  this  moment  the  angler,  who  had  resumed,  and 
seemed  to  be  intent  upon  his  occupation,  drew  a  fish 
from  the  pool,  which  he  had  pointed  out  to  Ellen. 

"  I  told  the  young  lady,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that,  if 
she  woidd  listen  to  me  a  moment  longer,  she  would  be 
repaid  for  her  trouble ;  and  here  is  the  proof  of  my 
words." 

"  Come,  let  us  hasten  towards  home,"  cried  Ellen, 
eagerly ;  and  she  took  Edward  Walcott's  arm,  with  a 


102  FANSHA  WE. 

freedom  that,  at  another  time,  would  have  enchanted 
him.  He  at  first  seemed  inclined  to  resist  her  wishes, 
but  complied,  after  exchanging,  unperceived  by  Ellen, 
a  glance  with  the  stranger,  the  meaning  of  which  the 
latter  appeared  perfectly  to  understand.  Fanshawe 
also  attended  her.  Their  walk  towards  Dr.  Melmoth's 
dwelling  was  almost  a  silent  one  ;  and  the  few  words 
that  passed  between  them  did  not  relate  to  the  adven 
ture  which  occupied  the  thoughts  of  each.  On  arriv 
ing  at  the  house,  Ellen's  attendants  took  leave  of  her, 
and  retired. 

Edward  Walcott,  eluding  Fanshawe's  observation 
with  little  difficulty,  hastened  back  to  the  old  oak-tree. 
From  the  intelligence  with  which  the  stranger  had  re 
ceived  his  meaning  glance,  the  young  man  had  sup 
posed  that  he  would  here  await  his  return.  But  the 
banks  of  the  stream,  upward  and  downward,  so  far  as 
his  eye  could  reach,  were  solitary.  He  could  see  only 
his  own  image  in  the  water,  where  it  swept  into  a  silent 
depth;  and  could  hear  only  its  ripple,  where  stones 
and  sunken  trees  impeded  its  course.  The  object  of 
his  search  might,  indeed,  have  found  concealment 
among  the  tufts  of  alders,  or  in  the  forest  that  was 
near  at  hand ;  but  thither  it  was  in  vain  to  pursue 
him.  The  angler  had  apparently  set  little  store  by 
the  fruits  of  his  assumed  occupation  ;  for  the  last  fish 
that  he  had  taken  lay,  yet  alive,  on  the  bank,  gasping 
for  the  element  to  which  Edward  was  sufficiently  com 
passionate  to  restore  him.  After  watching  him  as  he 
glided  down  the  stream,  making  feeble  efforts  to  re 
sist  its  current,  the  youth  turned  away,  and  sauntered 
slowly  towards  the  college. 

Ellen  Langton,  on  her  return  from  her  walk,  found 
Dr.  Melmoth's  little  parlor  unoccupied ;  that  gentle- 


FANSHAWE.  103 

man  being  deeply  engaged  in  his  study,  and  his  lady 
busied  in  her  domestic  affairs.  The  evening,  notwith 
standing  Ellen's  remark  concerning  the  chillness  of 
the  breeze,  was  almost  sultry  ;  and  the  windows  of  the 
apartment  were  thrown  open.  At  one  of  these,  which 
looked  into  the  garden,  she  seated  herself,  listening, 
almost  unconsciously,  to  the  monotonous  music  of  a 
thousand  insects,  varied  occasionally  by  the  voice  of  a 
whippoorwill,  who,  as  the  day  departed,  was  just  com 
mencing  his  song.  A  dusky  tint,  as  yet  almost  im 
perceptible,  was  beginning  to  settle  on  the  surround 
ing  objects,  except  where  they  were  opposed  to  the 
purple  and  golden  clouds,  which  the  vanished  sun  had 
made  the  brief  inheritors  of  a  portion  of  his  bright 
ness.  In  these  gorgeous  vapors,  Ellen's  fancy,  in  the 
interval  of  other  thoughts,  pictured  a  fairy-laud,  and 
longed  for  wings  to  visit  it. 

But  as  the  clouds  lost  their  brilliancy,  and  assumed 
first  a  dull  purple,  and  then  a  sullen  gray  tint,  Ellen's 
thoughts  recurred  to  the  adventure  of  the  angler, 
which  her  imagination  was  inclined  to  invest  with  an 
undue  singularity.  It  was,  however,  sufficiently  un 
accountable  that  an  entire  stranger  should  venture  to 
demand  of  her  a  private  audience  ;  and  she  assigned, 
in  turn,  a  thousand  motives  for  such  a  request,  none 
of  which  were  in  any  degree  satisfactory.  Her  most 
prevailing  thought,  though  she  could  not  justify  it  to 
her  reason,  inclined  her  to  believe  that  the  angler  was 
a  messenger  from  her  father.  But  wherefore  he  should 
deem  it  necessary  to  communicate  any  intelligence 
that  he  might  possess  only  by  means  of  a  private  in 
terview,  and  without  the  knowledge  of  her  friends, 
was  a  mystery  she  could  not  solve.  In  this  view  of 
the  matter,  however,  she  half  regretted  that  her  iu- 


104  FANSHAWE. 

stinctive  delicacy  had  impelled  her  so  suddenly  to 
break  oft'  their  conference,  admitting,  in  the  secrecy 
of  her  own  mind,  that,  if  an  opportunity  were  again 
to  occur,  it  might  not  again  be  shunned.  As  if  that 
unuttered  thought  had  power  to  conjure  up  its  object, 
she  now  became  aware  of  a  form  standing  in  the  gar 
den,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  window  where  she 
sat.  The  dusk  had  deepened,  during  Ellen's  abstrac 
tion,  to  such  a  degree,  that  the  man's  features  were 
not  perfectly  distinguishable ;  but  the  maiden  was  not 
long  in  doubt  of  his  identity,  for  he  approached,  and 
spoke  in  the  same  low  tone  in  which  he  had  addressed 
her  when  they  stood  by  the  stream. 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  my  request,  when  its  object  is 
but  your  own  good,  and  that  of  one  who  should  be 
most  dear  to  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

Ellen's  first  impulse  had  been  to  cry  out  for  assist 
ance  ;  her  second  was  to  fly :  but,  rejecting  both  these 
measures,  she  determined  to  remain,  endeavoring  to 
persuade  herself  that  she  was  safe.  The  quivering  of 
her  voice,  however,  when  she  attempted  to  reply,  be 
trayed  her  apprehensions. 

u  I  cannot  listen  to  such  a  request  from  a  stranger," 
she  said.  "  If  you  bring  news  from  —  from  my  father, 
why  is  it  not  told  to  Dr.  Melmoth  ?  " 

"  Because  what  I  have  to  say  is  for  your  ear  alone," 
was  the  reply ;  "  and  if  you  would  avoid  misfortune 
now,  and  sorrow  hereafter,  you  will  not  refuse  to  hear 
me." 

"And  does  it  concern  my  father?"  asked  Ellen, 
eagerly. 

"  It  does  —  most  deeply,"  answered  the  stranger. 

She  meditated  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  "  I  will 
not  refuse,  I  will  hear  —  but  speak  quickly." 


FAXSHAWE.  105 

"  "We  are  in  danger  of  interruption  in  this  plaoe> 
and  that  would  be  fatal  to  my  errand,7'  said  the 
stranger.  "  I  will  await  you  in  the  garden." 

With  these  words,  and  giving  her  no  opportunity 
for  reply,  he  drew  back  ;  and  his  form  faded  from  her 
eyes.  This  precipitate  retreat  from  argument  was  the 
most  probable  method  that  he  could  have  adopted  of 
gaining  his  end.  He  had  awakened  the  strongest  in 
terest  in  Ellen's  mind ;  and  he  calculated  justly  in 
supposing  that  she  would  consent  to  an  interview  upon 
his  own  terms. 

Dr.  Melmoth  had  followed  his  own  fancies  in  the 
mode  of  laying  out  his  garden  :  and,  in  consequence, 
the  plan  that  had  undoubtedly  existed  in  his  mind  was 
utterly  incomprehensible  to  every  one  but  himself.  It 
was  an  intermixture  of  kitchen  and  flower  garden,  a 
labyrinth  of  winding  paths,  bordered  by  hedges,  and 
impeded  by  shrubbery.  Many  of  the  original  trees 
of  the  forest  were  still  flourishing  among  the  exotics 
which  the  doctor  had  transplanted  thither.  It  was 
not  without  a  sensation  of  fear,  stronger  than  she  had 
ever  before  experienced,  that  Ellen  Langton  found 
herself  in  this  artificial  wilderness,  and  in  the  presence 
of  the  mysterious  stranger.  The  dusky  light  deepened 
the  lines  of  his  dark,  strong  features  ;  and  Ellen  fan 
cied  that  his  countenance  wore  a  wilder  and  a  fiercer 
look  than  when  she  had  met  him  by  the  stream.  He 
perceived  her  agitation,  and  addressed  her  in  the  soft 
est  tones  of  which  his  voice  was  capable. 

"Compose  yourself,"'  he  said;  "you  have  nothing 
to  fear  from  me.  But  we  are  in  open  view  from  the 
house,  where  we  now  stand ;  and  discovery  would  not 
be  without  danger  to  both  of  us." 

"  No  eye  can  see  u?  here,"  said  Ellen,  trembling  at 


106  FANSHAWE. 

the  truth  of  her  own  observation,  when  they  stood 
beneath  a  gnarled,  low-branched  pine,  which  Dr.  Mel- 
moth's  ideas  of  beauty  had  caused  him  to  retain  in  his 
garden.  "  Speak  quickly ;  for  I  dare  follow  you  no 
farther." 

The  spot  was  indeed  sufficiently  solitary ;  and  the 
stranger  delayed  no  longer  to  explain  his  errand. 

"  Your  father,"  he  began,  —  "  do  you  not  love  him  ? 
Would  you  do  aught  for  his  welfare  ?  " 

"  Everything  that  a  father  could  ask  I  would  do,'? 
exclaimed  Ellen,  eagerly.  "  Where  is  my  father  ?  and 
when  shall  I  meet  him  ?  " 

"  It  must  depend  upon  yourself,  whether  you  shall 
meet  him  in  a  few  days  or  never." 

"Never!  "  repeated  Ellen.  "Is  he  ill?  Is  he  in 
clanger?  " 

"  He  is  in  danger,"  replied  the  man,  "  but  not  from 
illness.  Your  father  is  a  ruined  man.  Of  all  his 
friends,  but  one  remains  to  him.  That  friend  has 
travelled  far  to  prove  if  his  daughter  has  a  daughter's 
affection." 

"  And  what  is  to  be  the  proof  ?  "  asked  Ellen,  with 
more  calmness  than  the  stranger  had  anticipated  ;  for 
she  possessed  a  large  fund  of  plain  sense,  which  re 
volted  against  the  mystery  of  these  proceedings.  Such 
a  course,  too,  seemed  discordant  with  her  father's  char 
acter,  whose  strong  mind  and  almost  cold  heart  were 
little  likely  to  demand,  or  even  to  pardon,  the  romance 
of  affection. 

"  This  letter  will  explain,"  was  the  reply  to  Ellen's 
question.  "  You  will  see  that  it  is  in  your  father's 
hand  ;  and  that  may  gain  your  confidence,  though  I 
am  doubted." 

She  received  the  letter ;  and  many  of  her  suspicions 


F ANSI! A  WE.  107 

of  the  stranger's  truth  were  vanquished  by  the  ap 
parent  openness  of  his  manner.  He  was  preparing 
to  speak  further,  but  paused,  for  a  footstep  was  now 
heard,  approaching  from  the  lower  part  of  the  garden. 
From  their  situation,  —  at  some  distance  from  the 
path,  and  in  the  shade  of  the  tree,  —  they  had  a  fair 
chance  of  eluding  discovery  from  any  unsuspecting 
passenger  ;  and,  when  Ellen  saw  that  the  intruder  was 
Fanshawe,  she  hoped  that  his  usual  abstraction  would 
assist  their  concealment. 

But,  as  the  student  advanced  along  the  path,  his  air 
was  not  that  of  one  whose  deep  inward  thoughts  with 
drew  his  attention  from  all  outward  objects.  He 
rather  resembled  the  hunter,  on  the  watch  for  his 
game ;  and,  while  he  was  yet  at  a  distance  from  Ellen, 
a  wandering  gust  of  wind  waved  her  white  garment, 
and  betrayed  her. 

"  It  is  as  I  feared,"  said  Fanshawe  to  himself.  He 
then  drew  nigh,  and  addressed  Ellen  with  a  calm 
authority  that  became  him  well,  notwithstanding  that 
his  years  scarcely  exceeded  her  own.  "  Miss  Lang- 
ton,"  he  inquired,  "  what  do  you  here  at  such  an  hour, 
and  with  such  a  companion  ?  " 

Ellen  was  sufficiently  displeased  at  what  she  deemed 
the  unauthorized  intrusion  of  Fanshawe  in  her  affairs  ; 
but  his  imposing  manner  and  her  own  confusion  pre 
vented  her  from  replying. 

"  Permit  me  to  lead  you  to  the  house,"  he  continued, 
in  the  words  of  a  request,  but  in  the  tone  of  a  com 
mand.  "  The  dew  hangs  dank  and  heavy  on  these 
branches ;  and  a  longer  stay  would  be  more  danger 
ous  than  you  are  aware." 

Ellen  would  fain  have  resisted ;  but  though  the 
tears  hung  as  heavy  on  lier  eyelashes,  between  shame 


108  FANSHA  WE. 

and  anger,  as  the  dew  upon  the  leaves,  she  felt  com 
pelled  to  accept  the  arm  that  he  offered  her.  But  the 
stranger,  who,  since  Fanshawe's  approach,  had  re 
mained  a  little  apart,  now  advanced. 

"  You  speak  as  one  in  authority,  young  man,"  he 
said.  "  Have  you  the  means  of  compelling  obedience  ? 
Does  your  power  extend  to  men  ?  Or  do  you  rule 
only  over  simple  girls  ?  Miss  Langton  is  under  my 
protection,  and,  till  you  can  bend  me  to  your  will,  she 
shall  remain  so." 

Fanshawe  turned  calmly,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
stranger.  "  Retire,  sir,"  was  all  he  said. 

Ellen  almost  shuddered,  as  if  there  were  a.  mysteri 
ous  and  unearthly  power  in  Fanshawe's  voice ;  for  she 
saw  that  the  stranger  endeavored  in  vain,  borne  down 
by  the  influence  of  a  superior  mind,  to  maintain  the 
boldness  of  look  and  bearing  that  seemed  natural  to 
him.  He  at  first  made  a  step  forward,  then  muttered 
a  few  half -audible  words ;  but,  quailing  at  length  be 
neath  the  young  man's  bright  and  steady  eye,  he 
turned  and  slowly  withdrew. 

Fanshawe  remained  silent  a  moment  after  his  oppo 
nent  had  departed-,  and,  when  he  next  spoke,  it  was 
in  a  tone  of  depression.  Ellen  observed,  also,  that  his 
countenance  had  lost  its  look  of  pride  and  authority ; 
and  he  seemed  faint  and  exhausted.  The  occasion 
that  called  forth  his  energies  had  passed ;  and  they 
had  left  him. 

"  Forgive  me,  Miss  Langton,"  he  said  almost  hum 
bly,  "  if  my  eagerness  to  serve  you  has  led  me  too  far. 
There  is  evil  in  this  stranger,  more  than  your  pure 
mind  can  conceive.  I  know  not  what  has  been  his 
errand ;  but  let  me  entreat  you  to  put  confidence  in 
those  to  whose  care  your  father  has  intrusted,  you, 


FANSHAWE.  109 

Qr  jf  I  —  or  —  or  Edward  "NValcott  —  But  I  have 
no  right  to  advise  you ;  and  your  own  calm  thoughts 
will  guide  you  best." 

He  said  no  more ;  and,  as  Ellen  did  not  reply,  they 
reached  the  house,  and  parted  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  The  seeds  by  nature  planted 
Take  a  deep  root  in  the  soil,  and  though  for  a  time 
The  trenchant  share  and  tearing  harrow  may 
Sweep  all  appearance  of  them  from  the  surface, 
Yet  with  the  first  warm  rains  of  spring  they  '11  shoot, 
And  with  their  rankness  smother  the  good  grain. 
Heaven  grant,  it  may  n't  be  so  with  him." 

RICHES. 

THE  scene  of  this  tale  must  now  be  changed  to  the 
little  inn,  which  at  that  period,  as  at  the  present,  was 
situated  in  the  vicinity  of  Haiiey  College.  The  site 
of  the  modern  establishment  is  the  same  with  that  of 
the  ancient ;  but  everything  of  the  latter  that  had 
been  built  by  hands  has  gone  to  decay  and  been  re 
moved,  and  only  the  earth  beneath  and  around  it  re 
mains  the  same.  The  modern  building,  a  house  of 
two  stories,  after  a  lapse  of  twenty  years,  is  yet  unfin 
ished.  On  this  account,  it  has  retained  the  appella 
tion  of  the  "  New  Inn,"  though,  like  many  who  have 
frequented  it,  it  has  grown  old  ere  its  maturity.  Its 
dingy  whiteness,  and  its  apparent  superfluity  of  win 
dows  (many  of  them  being  closed  with  rough  boards), 
give  it  somewhat  of  a  dreary  look,  especially  in  a  wet 
day. 

The  ancient  inn  was  a  house,  of  which  the  eaves  ap 
proached  within  about  seven  feet  of  the  ground ;  while 
the  roof,  sloping  gradually  upward,  formed  an  angle 
at  several  times  that  height.  It  was  a  comfortable 
and  pleasant  abode  to  the  weary  traveller,  both  in 
summer  and  winter ;  for  the  frost  never  ventured 


FANSHAWE.  Ill 

within  the  sphere  of  its  huge  hearths ;  and  it  was  pro 
tected  from  the  heat  of  the  sultry  season  by  three  large 
elms  that  swept  the  roof  with  their  long  branches,  and 
seemed  to  create  a  breeze  where  there  was  not  one. 
The  device  upon  the  sign,  suspended  from  one  of  these 
trees,  was  a  hand  holding  a  long-necked  bottle,  and 
was  much  more  appropriate  than  the  present  unmean 
ing  representation  of  a  black  eagle.  But  it  is  neces 
sary  to  speak  rather  more  at  length  of  the  landlord 
than  of  the  house  over  which  he  presided. 

Husfli  Crombie  was  one  for  whom  most  of  the  wise 

O 

men,  who  considered  the  course  of  his  early  years,  had 
predicted  the  gallows  as  an  end  before  he  should  arrive 
at  middle  age.  That  these  prophets  of  ill  had  been 
deceived  was  evident  from  the  fact  that  the  doomed 
man  had  now  passed  the  fortieth  year,  and  was  in 
more  prosperous  circumstances  than  most  of  those  who 
had  wagged  their  tongues  against  him.  Yet  the  fail 
ure  of  their  forebodings  was  more  remarkable  than 
their  fulfilment  would  have  been. 

He  had  been  distinguished,  almost  from  his  earliest 
infancy,  by  those  precocious  accomplishments,  which, 
because  they  consist  in  an  imitation  of  the  vices  and 
follies  of  maturity,  render  a  boy  the  favorite  plaything 
of  men.  He  seemed  to  have  received  from  nature  the 
convivial  talents,  which,  whether  natural  or  acquired, 
are  a  most  dangerous  possession ;  and,  before  his  twelfth 
year,  he  was  the  welcome  associate  of  all  the  idle  and 
dissipated  of  his  neighborhood,  and  especially  of  those 
who  haunted  the  tavern  of  which  he  had  now  become 
the  landlord.  Under  this  course  of  education,  Hugh 
Crombie  grew  to  youth  and  manhood ;  and  the  lovers 
of  good  words  could  only  say  in  his  favor,  that  he  was 
a  greater  enemy  to  himself  than  to  any  one  else,  and 


112  FA  XS  HA  WE. 

that,  if  he  should  reform,  few  would  have  a  better 
chance  of  prosperity  than  he. 

The  former  clause  of  this  modicum  of  praise  (if 
praise  it  may  be  termed)  was  indisputable ;  but  it  may 
be  doubted,  whether,  under  any  circumstances  where 
his  success  depended  on  his  own  exertions,  Hugh  would 
have  made  his  way  well  through  the  world.  He  was 
one  of  those  unfortunate  persons,  who,  instead  of  be 
ing  perfect  in  any  single  art  or  occupation,  are  super 
ficial  in  many,  and  who  are  supposed  to  possess  a 
larger  share  of  talent  than  other  men,  because  it  con 
sists  of  numerous  scraps,  instead  of  a  single  mass. 
He  was  partially  acquainted  with  most  of  the  manual 
arts  that  gave  bread  to  others  ;  but  not  one  of  them, 
nor  all  of  them,  would  give  bread  to  him.  By  some 
fatality,  the  only  two  of  his  multifarious  accomplish 
ments  in  which  his  excellence  was  generally  conceded 
were  both  calculated  to  keep  him  poor  rather  than  to 
make  him  rich.  He  was  a  musician  and  a  poet. 

There  are  yet  remaining  in  that  portion  of  the  coun 
try  many  ballads  and  songs,  —  set  to  their  own  pe 
culiar  tunes,  —  the  authorship  of  which  is  attributed 
to  him.  In  general,  his  productions  were  upon  sub 
jects  of  local  and  temporary  interest,  and  would  con 
sequently  require  a  bulk  of  explanatory  notes  to  ren 
der  them  interesting  or  intelligible  to  the  world  at 
large.  A  considerable  proportion  of  the  remainder  are 
Anacreontics ;  though,  in  their  construction,  Hugh 
Crombie  imitated  neither  the  Teian  nor  any  other 
bard.  These  latter  have  generally  a  coarseness  and 
sensuality  intolerable  to  minds  even  of  no  very  fastidi 
ous  delicacy.  But  there  are  two  or  three  simple  little 
songs,  into  which  a  feeling  and  a  natural  pathos  have 
found  their  way,  that  still  retain  their  influence  -pver 


FANSHAWE.  113 

the  heart.  These,  after  two  or  three  centuries,  may 
perhaps  be  precious  to  the  collectors  of  our  early  po 
etry.  At  any  rate,  Hugh  Crombie's  effusions,  tavern- 
haunter  and  vagrant  though  he  was,  have  gained  a 
continuance  of  fame  (confined,  indeed,  to  a  narrow 
section  of  the  country),  which  many  who  called  them 
selves  poets  then,  and  would  have  scornecf  such  a 
brother,  have  failed  to  equal. 

During  the  long  winter  evenings,  when  the  farmers 
were  idle  round  their  hearths,  Hugh  was  a  courted 
guest ;  for  none  could  while  away  the  hours  more  skil 
fully  than  he.  The  winter,  therefore,  was  his  season 
of  prosperity ;  in  which  respect  he  differed  from  the 
butterflies  and  useless  insects,  to  which  he  otherwise 
bore  a  resemblance.  During  the  cold  months,  a  very 
desirable  alteration  for  the  better  appeared  in  his  out 
ward  man.  His  cheeks  were  plump  and  sanguine ; 
his  eyes  bright  and  cheerful;  and  the  tip  of  his  nose 
glowed  with  a  Bardolphian  fire,  —  a  flame,  indeed, 
which  Hugh  was  so  far  a  vestal  as  to  supply  with  its 
necessary  fuel  at  all  seasons  of  the  year.  But,  as  the 
spring  advanced,  he  assumed  a  lean  and  sallow  look, 
wilting  and  fading  in  the  sunshine  that  brought  life 
and  joy  to  every  animal  and  vegetable  except  himself. 
His  winter  patrons  eyed  him  with  an  austere  regard  ,- 
and  some  even  practised  upon  him  the  modern  and 
fashionable  courtesy  of  the  "'  cut  direct." 

Yet,  after  all,  there  was  good,  or  something  that  Na 
ture  intended  to  be  so,  in  the  poor  outcast,  —  some 
lovely  flowers,  the  sweeter  even  for  the  weeds  that 
choked  them.  An  instance  of  this  was  his  affection 
for  an  aged  father,  whose  whole  support  was  the  bro 
ken  reed,  —  his  son.  Notwithstanding  his  own  neces 
sities,  Hugh  contrived  to  provide  food  and  raiment  for 

VOL.    XI.  8 


114  FANSHA  WE. 

the  old  man :  how,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  and 
perhaps  as  well  not  to  inquire.  He  also  exhibited 
traits  of  sensitiveness  to  neglect  and  insult,  and  of 
gratitude  for  favors  ;  both  of  which  feelings  a  course 
of  life  like  his  is  usually  quick  to  eradicate. 

At  length  the  restraint  —  for  such  his  father  had 
ever  been  —  upon  Hugh  Crombie's  conduct  was  re 
moved  by  death ;  and  then  the  wise  men  and  the  old 
began  to  shake  their  heads  ;  and  they  who  took  pleas 
ure  in  the  follies,  vices,  and  misfortunes  of  their  fel 
low-creatures,  looked  for  a  speedy  gratification.  They 
were  disappointed,  however  ;  for  Hugh  had  apparently 
determined,  that,  whatever  might  be  his  catastrophe, 
he  would  meet  it  among  strangers,  rather  than  at 
home.  Shortly  after  his  father's  death,  he  disappeared 
altogether  from  the  vicinity ;  and  his  name  became,  in 
the  course  of  years,  an  unusual  sound,  where  once  the 
lack  of  other  topics  of  interest  had  given  it  a  consider 
able  degree  of  notoriety.  Sometimes,  however,  when 
the  winter  blast  was  loud  round  the  lonely  farm-house, 
its  inmates  remembered  him  who  had  so  often  chased 
away  the  gloom  of  such  an  hour,  and,  though  with 
little  expectation  of  its  fulfilment,  expressed  a  wish  to 
behold  him  again. 

Yet  that  wish,  formed,  perhaps,  because  it  appeared 
so  desperate,  was  finally  destined  to  be  gratified.  One 
summer  evening,  about  two  years  previous  to  the 
period  of  this  tale,  a  man  of  sober  and  staid  deport 
ment,  mounted  upon  a  white  horse,  arrived  at  the 
Hand  and  Bottle,  to  which  some  civil  or  military  meet 
ing  had  chanced,  that  day,  to  draw  most  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  the  vicinity.  The  stranger  was  well  though 
plainly  dressed,  and  anywhere  but  in  a  retired  coun 
try  town  would  have  attracted  no  particular  attention  ? 


FANSHA  WE.  115 

but  here,  where  a  traveller  was  not  of  every-day  occur 
rence,  he  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  little  crowd,  who, 
when  his  eye  was  averted,  seized  the  opportunity  dili 
gently  to  peruse  his  person.  He  was  rather  a  thick 
set  man,  but  with  no  superfluous  flesh  ;  his  hair  was 
of  iron-gray ;  he  had  a  few  wrinkles ;  his  face  was  so 
deeply  sunburnt,  that,  excepting  a  half -smothered  glow 
on  the  tip  of  his  nose,  a  dusky  yellow  was  the  only 
apparent  hue.  As  the  people  gazed,  it  was  observed 
that  the  elderly  men,  and  the  men  of  substance,  gat 
themselves  silently  to  their  steeds,  and  hied  homeward 
with  an  unusual  degree  of  haste  ;  till  at  length  the  inn 
was  deserted,  except  by  a  few  wretched  objects  to 
whom  it  was  a  constant  resort.  These,  instead  of  re 
treating,  drew  closer  to  the  traveller,  peeping  anxiously 
into  his  face,  and  asking,  ever  and  anon,  a  question,  in 
order  to  discover  the  tone  of  his  voice.  At  length, 
with  one  consent,  and  as  if  the  recognition  had  at 
once  burst  upon  them,  they  hailed  their  old  boon-com 
panion,  Hugh  Crombie,  and,  leading  him  into  the  inn, 
did  him  the  honor  to  partake  of  a  cup  of  welcome  at 
his  expense. 

But,  though  Hugh  readily  acknowledged  the  not 
very  reputable  acquaintances  who  alone  acknowledged 
him,  they  speedily  discovered  that  he  was  an  altered 
man.  He  partook  with  great  moderation  of  the  liquor 
for  which  he  was  to  pay  ;  he  declined  all  their  flatter 
ing  entreaties  for  one  of  his  old  songs  ;  and  finally, 
being  urged  to  engage  in  a  game  at  all-fours,  he  calmly 
observed,  almost  in  the  words  of  an  old  clergyman  on 
a  like  occasion,  that  his  principles  forbade  a  profane 
appeal  to  the  decision  by  lot. 

On  the  next  Sabbath  Hugh  Crombie  made  his  ap 
pearance  at  public  worship  in  the  chapel  of  Haiiey 


116  FANSHAWE. 

College  ;  and  here  his  outward  demeanor  was  unex- 
ceptionably  serious  and  devout,  —  a  praise  which,  on 
that  particular  occasion,  could  be  bestowed  on  few  be 
sides.  From  these  favorable  symptoms,  the  old  estab 
lished  prejudices  against  him  began  to  waver ;  and  as 
he  seemed  not  to  need,  and  to  have  no  intention  to  ask, 
the  assistance  of  any  one,  he  was  soon  generally  ac 
knowledged  by  the  rich  as  well  as  by  the  poor.  His 
account  of  his  past  life,  and  of  his  intentions  for  the 
future,  was  brief,  but  not  unsatisfactory.  He  said 
that,  since  his  departure,  he  had  been  a  seafaring  man, 
and  that,  having  acquired  sufficient  property  to  render 
him  easy  in  the  decline  of  his  days,  he  had  returned 
to  live  and  die  in  the  town  of  his  nativity. 

There  was  one  person,  and  the  one  whom  Hugh  was 
most  interested  to  please,  who  seemed  perfectly  satis 
fied  of  the  verity  of  his  reformation.  This  was  the 
landlady  of  the  inn,  whom,  at  his  departure,  he  had 
left  a  gay,  and,  even  at  thirty -five,  a  rather  pretty 
wife,  and  whom,  on  his  return,  he  found  a  widow  of 
fifty,  fat,  yellow,  wrinkled,  and  a  zealous  member  of 
the  church.  She,  like  others,  had,  at  first,  cast  a  cold  • 
eye  on  the  wanderer ;  but  it  shortly  became  evident 
to  close  observers,  that  a  change  was  at  work  in  the 
pious  matron's  sentiments  respecting  her  old  acquain 
tance.  She  was  now  careful  to  give  him  his  morning 
dram  from  her  own  peculiar  bottle,  to  fill  his  pipe 
from  her  private  box  of  Virginia,  and  to  mix  for 
him  the  sleeping-cup  in  which  her  late  husband  had 
delighted.  Of  all  these  courtesies  Hugh  Crombie  did 
partake  with  a  wise  and  cautious  moderation,  that, 
while  it  proved  them  to  be  welcome,  expressed  his 
fear  of  trespassing  on  her  kindness.  For  the  sake  of 
brevity,  it  shall  suffice  to  say,  that,  about  six  weeks 


FANSHAWE.  117 

after  Hugh's  return,  a  writing  appeared  on  one  of  the 
elm-trees  in  front  of  the  tavern  (where,  as  the  place 
of  greatest  resort,  such  notices  were  usually  displayed) 
setting  forth  that  marriage  was  intended  between  Hugh 
Cronibie  and  the  Widow  Sarah  Hutchins.  And  the 
ceremony,  which  made  Hugh  a  landholder,  a  house 
holder,  and  a  substantial  man,  in  due  time  took  place. 

As  a  landlord,  his  general  conduct  was  very  praise 
worthy.  He  was  moderate  in  his  charges,  and  atten 
tive  to  his  guests ;  he  allowed  no  gross  and  evident 
disorders  in  his  house,  and  practised  none  himself ;  he 
was  kind  and  charitable  to  such  as  needed  food  and 
lodging,  and  had  not  wherewithal  to  pay,  —  for  with 
these  his  experience  had  doubtless  given  him  a  fellow- 
feeling.  He  was  also  sufficiently  attentive  to  his  wife ; 
though  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  religious  zeal 
which  had  had  a  considerable  influence  in  gaining  her 
affections  grew,  by  no  moderate  degrees,  less  fervent. 
It  was  whispered,  too,  that  the  new  landlord  could, 
when  time,  place,  and  company  were  to  his  mind,  up 
raise  a  song  as  merrily,  and  drink  a  glass  as  jollily, 
as  in  the  days  of  yore.  These  were  the  weightiest 
charges  that  could  now  be  brought  against  him  ;  and 
wise  men  thought,  that,  whatever  might  have  been  the 
evil  of  his  past  life,  he  had  returned  with  a  desire 
(which  years  of  vice,  if  they  do  not  sometimes  produce, 
do  not  always  destroy)  of  being  honest,  if  opportunity 
should  offer  ;  and  Hugh  had  certainly  a  fair  one. 

On  the  afternoon  previous  to  the  events  related  in 
the  last  chapter,  the  personage  whose  introduction  to 
the  reader  has  occupied  so  large  a  space  was  seated 
under  one  of  the  elms  in  front  of  his  dwelling.  The 
bench  which  now  sustained  him,  and  on  which  were 
carved  the  names  of  many  former  occupants,  waa 


118  FANSHA  WE. 

Hugh  Crombie's  favorite  lounging-place,  unless  when 
his  attentions  were  required  by  his  guests.  No  de 
mand  had  that  day  been  made  upon  the  hospitality  of 
the  Hand  and  Bottle  ;  and  the  landlord  was  just  then 
murmuring  at  the  unfrequency  of  employment.  The 
slenderness  of  his  profits,  indeed,  were  no  part  of  his 
concern ;  for  the  Widow  Hutchins's  chief  income  was 
drawn  from  her  farm,  nor  was  Hugh  ever  miserly  in 
clined.  But  his  education  and  habits  had  made  him 
delight  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  inn,  and  in  the  society 
of  those  who  frequented  it ;  and  of  this  species  of  en 
joyment  his  present  situation  certainly  did  not  afford 
an  overplus. 

Yet  had  Hugh  Crombie  an  enviable  appearance  of 
indolence  and  ease,  as  he  sat  under  the  old  tree,  pollut 
ing  the  sweet  air  wifh  his  pipe,  and  taking  occasional 
draughts  from  a  brown  jug  that  stood  near  at  hand. 
The  basis  of  the  Dotation  contained  in  this  vessel  was 
harsh  old  cider,  Vrom  the  widow's  own  orchard;  but 
its  coldness  and  icidity  were  rendered  innocuous  by 
a  due  proportion  of  yet  older  brandy.  The  result  of 
this  mixture  was  extremely  felicitous,  pleasant  to  the 
taste,  and  producing  a  tingling  sensation  on  the  coats 
of  the  stomach,  uncommonly  delectable  to  so  old  a 
toper  as  Hugh. 

The  landlord  cast  his  eye,  ever  and  anon,  along  the 
road  that  led  down  the  valley  in  the  direction  of  the 
village ;  and  at  last,  when  the  sun  was  wearing  west 
ward,  he  discovered  the  approach  of  a  horseman.  He 
immediately  replenished  his  pipe,  took  a  long  draught 
from  the  brown  jug,  summoned  the  ragged  youth  who 
officiated  in  most  of  the  subordinate  departments  of 
the  inn,  and  who  was  now  to  act  as  hostler,  and  then 
prv^ared  himself  for  confabulation  with  his  guest,-* 


FANSHAWE.  119 

"  He  comes  from  the  sea-coast,"  said  Hugh  to  him 
self,  as  the  traveller  emerged  into  open  view  on  the 
level  road.  "He  is  two  days  in  advance  of  the  post, 
with  its  news  of  a  fortnight  old.  Pray  Heaven  he 
prove  communicative  !  "  Then,  as  the  stranger  drew 
nigher,  "  One  would  judge  that  his  dark  face  had  seen 
as  hot  a  sun  as  mine.  He  has  felt  the  burning  breeze 
of  the  Indies,  East  and  West,  I  warrant  him.  Ah, 
I  see  we  shall  send  away  the  evening  merrily !  Not 
a  penny  shall  come  out  of  his  purse,  —  that  is,  if 
his,  tongue  runs  glibly.  Just  the  man  I  was  praying 
for  —  Now  may  the  Devil  take  me  if  he  is  !  "  inter 
rupted  Hugh,  in  accents  of  alarm,  and  starting  from 
his  seat.  He  composed  his  countenance,  however, 
with  the  power  that  long  habit  and  necessity  had 
given  him  over  his  emotions,  and  again  settled  himself 
quietly  on  the  bench. 

The  traveller,  coming  on  at  a  moderate  pace, 
alighted,  and  gave  his  horse  to  the  ragged  hostler. 
He  then  advanced  towards  the  door  near  which  Hugh 
was  seated,  whose  agitation  was  manifested  by  no  per 
ceptible  sign,  except  by  the  shorter  and  more  frequent 
puffs  with  which  he  plied  his  pipe.  Their  eyes  did 
not  meet  till  just  as  the  stranger  was  about  to  enter, 
when  he  started  apparently  with  a  surprise  and  alarm 
similar  to  those  of  Hugh  Cronibie.  He  recovered 
himself,  however,  sufficiently  to  return  the  nod  of  rec 
ognition  with  which  he  was  favored,  and  immediately 
entered  the  house,  the  landlord  following. 

"  This  way,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  Hugh.  "  You 
will  find  this  apartment  cool  and  retired." 

He  ushered  his  guest  into  a  small  room  the  windows 
of  which  were  darkened  by  the  creeping  plants  that 
clustered  round  them.  Entering,  and  closing  the 


120  FANSHAWE. 

door,  the  two  gazed  at  each  other  a  little  space  with 
out  speaking.     The  traveller  first  broke  silence. 

"  Then  this  is  your  living  self,  Hugh  Crombie  ?  "  he 
said.  The  landlord  extended  his  hand  as  a  practical 
reply  to  the  question.  The  stranger  took  it,  though 
with  no  especial  appearance  of  cordiality. 

"  Ay,  this  seems  to  be  flesh  and  blood,"  he  said,  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  would  willingly  have  found  it 
otherwise.  "  And  how  happens  this,  friend  Hugh  ? 
I  little  thought  to  meet  you  again  in  this  life.  When 
I  last  heard  from  you,  your  prayers  were  said,  and 
you  were  bound  for  a  better  world." 

"  There  would  have  been  small  danger  of  your  meet 
ing  me  there,"  observed  the  landlord,  dryly. 

"  It  is  an  unquestionable  truth,  Hugh,"  replied  the 
traveller.  "  For  which  reason  I  regret  that  your  voy 
age  was  delayed." 

"  Nay,  that  is  a  hard  word  to  bestow  on  your  old 
comrade,"  said  Hugh  Crombie.     "  The  world  is  wide 
/  enough  for  both  of  us  ;  and  why  should  you  wish  me 
'out  of  it?" 

"  Wide  as  it  is,"  rejoined  the  stranger,  "  we  have 
stumbled  against  each  other,  —  to  the  pleasure,  of 
neither  of  us,  if  I  may  judge  from  your  countenance. 
Methinks  I  am  not  a  welcome  guest  at  Hugh  Crom- 
bie's  inn." 

"  Your  welcome  must  depend  on  the  cause  of  your 
coming,  and  the  length  of  your  stay,"  replied  the  land 
lord. 

"  And  what  if  I  come  to  settle  down  among  these 
quiet  hills  where  I  was  born?"  inquired  the  other. 
"  What  if  I,  too,  am  weary  of  the  life  we  have  led,  — 
or  afraid,  perhaps,  that  it  will  come  to  too  speedy  an 
end  ?  Shall  I  have  your  good  word,  Hugh,,  to  set*  me 


FANSHAWE.  121 

up  in  an  honest  way  of  life  ?  Or  will  you  make  me  a 
partner  in  your  trade,  since  you  know  my  qualifica 
tions  ?  A  pretty  pair  of  publicans  should  we  be  ;  and 
the  quart  pot  would  have  little  rest  between  us." 

"  It  may  be  as  well  to  replenish  it  now,"  observed 
Hugh,  stepping  to  the  door  of  the  room,  and  giving 
orders  accordingly.  "  A  meeting  between  old  friends 
should  never  be  dry.  But  for  the  partnership,  it  is  a 
matter  in  which  you  must  excuse  me.  Heaven  knows 
I  find  it  hard  enough  to  be  honest,  with  no  tempter 
but  the  Devil  and  my  own  thoughts ;  and,  if  I  have 
you  also  to  contend  with,  there  is  little  hope  of  me." 

"Nay,  that  is  true.  Your  good  resolutions  were 
always  like  cobwebs,  and  your  evil  habits  like  five-inch 
cables,"  replied  the  traveller.  "  I  am  to  understand, 
then,  that  you  refuse  my  offer  ?  " 

"  Not  only  that ;  but,  if  you  have  chosen  this  valley 
as  your  place  of  rest,  Dame  Crombie  and  I  must  look 
through  the  world  for  another.  But  hush !  here  comes 
the  wine." 

The  hostler,  in  the  performance  of  another  part  of 
his  duty,  now  appeared,  bearing  a  measure  of  the 
liquor  that  Hugh  had  ordered.  The  wine  of  that  pe 
riod,  owing  to  the  comparative  lowness  of  the  duties, 
was  of  more  moderate  price  than  in  the  mother-coun 
try,  and  of  purer  and  better  quality  than  at  the  present 
day. 

"The  stuff  is  well  chosen,  Hugh,"  observed  the 
guest,  after  a  draught  large  enough  to  authorize  an 
opinion.  "  You  have  most  of  the  requisites  for  your 
present  station ;  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  draw  you 
from  it.  I  trust  there  will  be  no  need." 

"  Yet  you  have  a  purpose  in  your  journey  hither,'' 
observed  his  comrade. 


122  FANSHAWE. 

"  Yes ;  and  you  would  fain  be  informed  of  it,"  re 
plied  the  traveller.  He  arose,  and  walked  once  or 
twice  across  the  room;  then,  seeming  to  have  taken 
his  resolution,  he  paused,  and  fixed  his  eye  steadfastly 
on  Hugh  Crombie.  "  I  could  wish,  my  old  acquain 
tance,"  he  said,  "  that  your  lot  had  been  cast  any 
where  rather  than  here.  Yet,  if  you  choose  it,  you 
may  do  me  a  good  office,  and  one  that  shall  meet  with 
a  good  reward.  Can  I  trust  you?" 

"My  secrecy,  you  can,"  answered  the  host,  "but 
nothing  further.  I  know  the  nature  of  your  plans, 
and  whither  they  would  lead  me,  too  well  to  engage  in 
them.  To  say  the  truth,  since  it  concerns  not  me,  I 
have  little  desire  to  hear  your  secret." 

"  And  I  as  little  to  tell  it,  I  do  assure  you,"  rejoined 
the  guest.  "  I  have  always  loved  to  manage  my  af 
fairs  myself,  and  to  keep  them  to  myself.  It  is  a  good 
rule ;  but  it  must  sometimes  be  broken.  And  now, 
Hugh,  how  is  it  that  you  have  become  possessed  of 
this  comfortable  dwelling  and  of  these  pleasant  fields?" 

"  By  my  marriage  with  the  Widow  Sarah  Hutch- 
ins,"  replied  Hugh  Crombie,  staring  at  a  question 
which  seemed  to  have  little  reference  to  the  present 
topic  of  conversation. 

"  It  is  a  most  excellent  method  of  becoming  a  man 
of  substance,"  continued  the  traveller ;  "  attended  with 
little  trouble,  and  honest  withal." 

"  Why,  as  to  the  trouble,"  said  the  landlord,  "  it 
follows  such  a  bargain,  instead  of  going  before  it. 
And  for  honesty,  —  I  do  not  recollect  that  I  have 
gained  a  penny  more  honestly  these  twenty  years." 

"  I  can  swear  to  that,"  observed  his  comrade.  "  Well, 
mine  host,  I  entirely  approve  of  your  doings,  and,  more' 
over,  have  resolved  to  prosper  after  the  same  fasljion 
myself." 


FANSHAWE.  123 

"  If  that  be  the  commodity  you  seek,"  replied  Hugh 
Crombie,  "  you  will  find  none  here  to  your  mind.  We 
have  widows  in  plenty,  it  is  true ;  but  most  of  them 
have  children,  and  few  have  houses  and  lands.  But 
now  to  be  serious,  —  and  there  has  been  something 
serious  in  your  eye  all  this  while,  —  what  is  your  pur 
pose  in  coming  hither  ?  You  are  not  safe  here.  Your 
name  has  had  a  wider  spread  than  mine,  and,  if  dis 
covered,  it  will  go  hard  with  you." 

"  But  who  would  know  me  now  ?  "  asked  the  <niest. 

O 

"  Few,  few  indeed !  "  replied  the  landlord,  gazing  at 
the  dark  features  of  his  companion,  where  hardship, 
peril,  and  dissipation  had  each  left  their  traces.  "  No, 
you  are  not  like  the  slender  boy  of  fifteen,  who  stood 
on  the  hill  by  moonlight  to  take  a  last  look  at  his 
father's  cottage.  There  were  tears  in  your  eyes  then  ; 
and,  as  often  as  I  remember  them,  I  repent  that  I  did 
not  turn  you  back,  instead  of  leading  you  on." 

"  Tears,  were  there  ?  Well,  there  have  been  few 
enough  since,"  said  his  comrade,  pressing  his  eyelids 
firmly  together,  as  if  even  then  tempted  to  give  way  to 
the  weakness  that  he  scorned.  "  And,  for  turning  me 
back,  Hugh,  it  was  beyond  your  power.  I  had  taken 
my  resolution,  and  you  did  but  show  me  the  way  to 
execute  it." 

"  You  have  not  inquired  after  those  you  left  behind," 
observed  Hugh  Crombie. 

"No — no;  nor  will  I  have  aught  of  them,"  ex 
claimed  the  traveller,  starting  from  his  seat,  and  pac 
ing  rapidly  across  the  room.  u  My  father,  I  know,  is 
dead,  and  I  have  forgiven  him.  My  mother  —  what 
could  I  hear  of  her  but  misery  ?  I  will  hear  nothing." 

"You  must  have  passed  the  cottage  as  you  rode 
hitherward."  said  Hu^h.  "  How  could  vou  forbear  to 


enter9" 


124  FANSHA  WE. 

"  1  did  not  see  it,"  lie  replied.  "  I  closed  my  eyes, 
and  turned  away  my  head." 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  had  a  mother,  a  loving  mother !  if 
there  had  been  one  being  in  the  world  that  loved  me, 
or  cared  for  me,  I  should  not  have  become  an  utter 
castaway,"  exclaimed  Hugh  Crombie. 

The  landlord's  pathos,  like  all  pathos  that  flows  from 
the  winecup,  was  sufficiently  ridiculous ;  and  his  com 
panion,  who  had  already  overcome  his  own  brief  feel 
ings  of  sorrow  and  remorse,  now  laughed  aloud. 

"  Come,  come,  mine  host  of  the  Hand  and  Bottle, 
he  cried  in  his  usual  hard,  sarcastic  tone  ;  "  be  a  man 
as  much  as  in  you  lies.  You  had  always  a  foolish  trick 
of  repentance ;  but,  as  I  remember,  it  was  commonly 
of  a  morning,  before  you  had  swallowed  your  first 
dram.  And  now,  Hugh,  fill  the  quart  pot  again,  and 
we  will  to  business." 

When  the  landlord  had  complied  with  the  wishes  of 
his  guest,  the  latter  resumed  in  a  lower  tone  than  that 
of  his  ordinary  conversation,  — 

"  There  is  a  young  lady  lately  become  a  resident 
hereabouts.  Perhaps  you  can  guess  her  name ;  for 
you  have  a  quick  apprehension  in  these  matters." 

"  A  young  lady  ?  "  repeated  Hugh  Crombie.  "  And 
what  is  your  concern  with  her  ?  Do  you  mean  Ellen 
Langton,  daughter  of  the  old  merchant  Langton,  whom 
you  have  some  cause  to  remember?" 

"  I  do  remember  him  ;  but  he  is  where  he  will  speea- 
ily  be  forgotten,"  answered  the  traveller.  "  And  this 
girl,  —  I  know  your  eye  has  been  upon  her,  Hugh,  — 
describe  her  to  me." 

"  Describe  her !  "  exclaimed  Hugh  with  much  ani 
mation.  "It  is  impossible  in  prose ;  but  you  shall 
have  her  very  picture  in  a  verse  of  one  of  my  own 
songs."  /*• 


FANSHA  WE.  125 

"  Nay,  mine  host,  I  beseech  you  to  spare  me.  This 
is  no  time  for  quavering,"  said  the  guest.  "  However, 
I  am  proud  of  your  approbation,  my  old  friend :  for 
this  young  lady  do  I  intend  to  take  to  wife.  "What 
think  you  of  the  plan  ?  " 

Hugh  Crombie  gazed  into  his  companion's  face  for 
the  space  of  a  moment,  in  silence.  There  was  nothing 
in  its  expression  that  looked  like  a  jest.  It  still  re 
tained  the  same  hard,  cold  look,  that,  except  when 
Hugh  had  alluded  to  his  home  and  family,  it  had 
worn  through  their  whole  conversation. 

uOn  my  word,  comrade!"  he  at  length  replied, 
"  iny  advice  is,  that  you  give  over  your  application  to 
the  quart  pot,  and  refresh  your  brain  by  a  short  nap. 
And  yet  your  eye  is  cool  and  steady.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  ?  " 

"  Listen,  and  you  shall  know,"  said  the  guest.  "  The 
old  man,  her  father,  is  in  his  grave." 

"  Not  a  bloody  grave,  I  trust,"  interrupted  the  land 
lord,  starting,  and  looking  fearfully  into  his  comrade's 
face. 

"  No,  a  watery  one,"  he  replied  calmly.  "  You  see, 
Hugh,  I  am  a  better  man  than  you  took  me  for.  The 
old  man's  blood  is  not  on  my  head,  though  my  wrongs 
are  on  his.  Now  listen :  he  had  no  heir  but  this  only 
daughter ;  and  to  her,  and  to  the  man  she  marries,  all 
his  wealth  will  belong.  She  shall  marrv  me.  Think 

O  •/ 

you  her  father  will  rest  easy  in  the  ocean,  Hugh  Crom 
bie,  when  I  am  his  son-in-law?  " 

"  No,  he  will  rise  up  to  prevent  it,  if  need  be,"  an 
swered  the  landlord.  4*  But  the  dead  need  not  inter 
pose  to  frustrate  so  wild  a  scheme." 

<;  I  understand  you,"  said  his  comrade.  "  You  are 
of  opinion  that  the  young  lady's  consent  may  not  be 


126  FANSHA  WE. 

so  soon  won  as  asked.  Fear  not  for  that,  mine  host. 
I  have  a  winning  way  with  me,  when  opportunity 
serves  ;  and  it  shall  serve  with  Ellen  Langton.  I  will 
have  no  rivals  in  my  wooing." 

44  Your  intention,  if  I  take  it  rightly,  is  to  get  this 
poor  girl  into  your  power,  and  then  to  force  her  into  a 
marriage/'  said  Hugh  Crombie. 

44  It  is ;  and  I  think  I  possess  the  means  of  doing 
it,"  replied  his  comrade.  44  But  methinks,  friend 
Hugh,  my  enterprise  has  not  your  good  wishes." 

44  No ;  and  I  pray  you  to  give  it  over,"  said  Hugh 
Crombie,  very  earnestly.  44  The  girl  is  young,  lovely, 
and  as  good  as  she  is  fair.  I  cannot  aid  in  her  ruin. 
Nay,  more  :  I  must  prevent  it." 

44  Prevent  it !  "  exclaimed  the  traveller,  with  a  dark 
ening  countenance.  44  Think  twice  before  you  stir  in 
this  matter,  I  advise  you.  Ruin,  do  you  say  ?  Does  a 
girl  call  it  ruin  to  be  made  an  honest  wedded  wife  ? 
No,  no,  mine  host !  nor  does  a  widow  either,  else  have 
you  much  to  answer  for." 

44 1  gave  the  Widow  Hutchins  fair  play,  at  least, 
which  is  more  than  poor  Ellen  is  like  to  get,"  observed 
the  landlord.  44  My  old  comrade,  will  you  not  give  up 
this  scheme  ?  " 

44  My  old  comrade,  I  will  not  give  up  this  scheme," 
returned  the  other,  composedly.  44  Why,  Hugh,  what 
has  come  over  you  since  we  last  met  ?  Have  we  not 
done  twenty  worse  deeds  of  a  morning,  and  laughed 
over  them  at  night  ?  " 

44  He  is  right  there,"  said  Hugh  Crombie,  in  a  medi 
tative  tone.  44  Of  a  certainty,  my  conscience  has  grown 
unreasoiiabty  tender  within  the  last  two  years.  This 
one  small  sin,  if  I  were  to  aid  in  it,  would  add  but  a 
trifle  to  the  sum  of  mine.  But  then  the  poor  girl !  " 


FANSHAWE.  127 

His  companion  overheard  him  thus  communing  with 
himself,  and  having  had  much  former  experience  of  his 
infirmity  of  purpose,  doubted  not  that  he  should  bend 
him  to  his  will.  In  fact,  his  arguments  were  so  effec 
tual,  that  Hugh  at  length,  though  reluctantly,  promised 
his  cooperation.  It  was  necessary  that  their  motions 
should  be  speedy ;  for  on  the  second  day  thereafter, 
the  arrival  of  the  post  would  bring  intelligence  of  the 
shipwreck  by  which  Mr.  Langton  had  perished. 

"  And  after  the  deed  is  done,"  said  the  landlord,  u  I 
beseech  you  never  to  cross  my  path  again.  There 
have  been  more  wicked  thoughts  in  my  head  within 
the  last  hour  than  for  the  whole  two  years  that  I  have 
been  an  honest  man." 

"  What  a  saint  art  thou  become,  Hugh  ! "  said  his 
comrade.  "But  fear  not  that  we  shall  meet  again. 
When  I  leave  this  valley,  it  will  be  to  enter  it  no 
more." 

"  And  there  is  little  danger  that  any  other  who  has 
known  me  will  chance  upon  me  here,"  observed  Hugh 
Crombie.  "  Our  trade  was  unfavorable  to  length  of 

O 

days,  and  I  suppose  most  of  our  old  comrades  have 
arrived  at  the  end  of  theirs." 

"  One  whom  you  knew  well  is  nearer  to  you  than 
you  think,"  answered  the  traveller  ;  u  for  I  did  not 
travel  hitherward  entirely  alone." 


CHAPTER  V. 

«« A  naughty  night  to  swim  in."  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  evening  of  the  day  succeeding  the  adventures 
of  the  angler  was  dark  and  tempestuous.  The  rain 
descended  almost  in  a  continuous  sheet ;  and  occa 
sional  powerful  gusts  of  wind  drove  it  hard  against 
the  northeastern  windows  of  Hugh  Crombie's  inn. 
But  at  least  one  apartment  of  the  interior  presented  a 
scene  of  comfort  and  of  apparent  enjoyment,  the  more 
delightful  from  its  contrast  with  the  elemental  .fury 
that  raged  without.  A  fire,  which  the  chillness  of  the 
evening,  though  a  summer  one,  made  necessary,  was 
burning  brightly  on  the  hearth ;  and  in  front  was 
placed  a  small  round  table,  sustaining  wine  and 
glasses.  One  of  the  guests  for  whom  these  prepara 
tions  had  been  made  was  Edward  Walcott ;  the  other 
was  a  shy,  awkward  young  man,  distinguished,  by  the 
union  of  classic  and  rural  dress,  as  having  but  lately 
become  a  student  of  Harley  College.  He  seemed  little 
at  his  ease,  probably  from  a  consciousness  that  he  was 
on  forbidden  ground,  and  that  the  wine,  of  which  he 
nevertheless  swallowed  a  larger  share  than  his  com 
panion,  was  an  unlawful  draught. 

In  the  catalogue  of  crimes  provided  against  by  the 
laws  of  Harley  College,  that  of  tavern-haunting  was 
one  of  the  principal.  The  secluded  situation  of  the 
seminary,  indeed,  gave  its  scholars  but  a  very  limited 
choice  of  vices ;  and  this  was,  therefore,  the  usual 


F ANSI! A  WE.  129 

channel  by  which  the  wiklness  of  youth  discharged  it 
self.  Edward  Walcott,  though  naturally  temperate, 
had  been  not  an  (infrequent  offender  in  this  respect, 
for  which  a  superfluity  both  of  time  and  money  might 
plead  some  excuse.  But,  since  his  acquaintance  with 
Ellen  Langton,  he  had  rarely  entered  Hugh  Cronibie's 
doors ;  and  an  interruption  in  that  acquaintance  was 
the  cause  of  his  present  appearance  there. 

Edward's  jealous  pride  had  been  considerably 
touched  on  Ellen's  compliance  with  the  request  of  the 
angler.  He  had,  by  degrees,  imperceptible  perhaps 
to  himself,  assumed  the  right  of  feeling  displeased 
with  her  conduct ;  and  she  had,  as  imperceptibly,  ac 
customed  herself  to  consider  what  would  be  his  wishes, 
and  to  act  accordingly.  He  would,  indeed,  in  no  con 
tingency  have  ventured  an  open  remonstrance  :  and 
such  a  proceeding  would  have  been  attended  by  a  re 
sult  the  reverse  of  what  he  desired.  But  there  existed 
between  them  a  silent  compact  (acknowledged  perhaps 
by  neither,  but  felt  by  both),  according  to  which  they 
had  regulated  the  latter  part  of  their  intercourse. 
Their  lips  had  yet  spoken  no  word  of  love  ;  but  some 
of  love's  rights  and  privileges  had  been  assumed  on 
the  one  side,  and  at  least  not  disallowed  on  the  other. 

Edward's  penetration  had  been  sufficiently  quick  to 
discover  that  there  was  a  mystery  about  the  angler, 
that  there  must  have  been  a  cause  for  the  blush  that 
rose  so  proudly  on  Ellen's  cheek  ;  and  his  Quixotism 
had  been  not  a  little  mortified,  because  she  did  not  im 
mediately  appeal  to  his  protection.  He  had,  however, 
paid  his  usual  visit  the  next  day  at  Dr.  Melmoth's,  ex 
pecting  that,  by  a  smile  of  more  than  common  bright 
ness,  she  would  make  amends  to  his  wounded  feelings  ; 
such  having  been  her  usual  mode  of  reparation  in  the 

VOL.  XI.  9 


130  FANSHAWE. 

few  instances  of  disagreement  that  had  occurred  be 
tween  them.  But  he  was  disappointed.  He  found  her 
cold,  silent,  and  abstracted,  inattentive  when  he  spoke, 
and  indisposed  to  speak  herself.  Her  eye  was  sedu 
lously  averted  from  his  ;  and  the  casual  meeting  of 
their  glances  only  proved  that  there  were  feelings  in 
her  bosom  which  he  did  not  share.  He  was  unable  to 
account  for  this  change  in  her  deportment ;  and,  added 
to  his  previous  conceptions  of  his  wrongs,  it  produced 
an  effect  upon  his  rather  hasty  temper,  that  might 
have  manifested  itself  violently,  but  for  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Melmoth.  He  took  his  leave  in  very  evident 
displeasure ;  but,  just  as  he  closed  the  door,  he  no 
ticed  an  expression  in  Ellen's  countenance,  that,  had 
they  been  alone,  and  had  not  he  been  quite  so  proud, 
would  have  drawn  him  down  to  her  feet.  Their  eyes 
met,  when,  suddenly,  there  was  a  gush  of  tears  into 
those  of  Ellen ;  and  a  deep  sadness,  almost  despair, 
spread  itself  over  her  features.  He  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  went  his  way,  equally  unable  to  account  for 
her  coldness,  or  for  her  grief.  He  was  well  aware, 
however,  that  his  situation  in  respect  to  her  was  un 
accountably  changed,  —  a  conviction  so  disagreeable, 
that,  but  for  a  hope  that  is  latent  even  in  the  despair 
of  youthful  hearts,  he  would  have  been  sorely  tempted 
to  shoot  himself. 

The  gloom  of  his  thoughts  —  a  mood  of  mind  the 
more  intolerable  to  him,  because  so  unusual  —  had 
driven  him  to  Hugh  Croinbie's  inn  in  search  of  arti 
ficial  excitement.  But  even  the  wine  had  no  attrac 
tions  ;  and  his  first  glass  stood  now  almost  untouched 
before  him,  while  he  gazed  in  heavy  thought  into  the 
glowing  embers  of  the  fire.  His  companion  perceived 
his  melancholy,  and  essayed  to  dispel  it  by  a  choice  of 


FANSHAWE.  131 

such  topics  of  conversation  as  he  conceived  would  be 
most  agreeable. 

"  There  is  a  lady  in  the  house,"  he  observed.  "  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  passage  as  we  came  in. 
Did  you  see  her,  Edward  ?  " 

"  A  lady  !  "  repeated  Edward,  carelessly.  "  What 
know  you  of  ladies  ?  No,  I  did  not  see  her  ;  but  I 
will  venture  to  say  that  it  was  Dame  Crombie's  self, 
and  no  other." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  might,"  said  the  other,  doubt- 
ingly.  "  Her  head  was  turned  from  me,  and  she  was 
gone  like  a  shadow." 

"  Dame  Crombie  is  no  shadow,  and  never  vanishes 
like  one,"  resumed  Edward.  "You  have  mistaken 
the  slipshod  servant-girl  for  a  lady." 

"  Ay ;  but  she  had  a  white  hand,  a  small  white 
hand,"  said  the  student,  piqued  at  Edward's  contempt 
uous  opinion  of  his  powers  of  observation  ;  "  as  white 
as  Ellen  Langton's."  He  paused  ;  for  the  lover  was 
offended  by  the  profanity  of  the  comparison,  as  was 
made  evident  by  the  blood  that  rushed  to  his  brow. 

"  We  will  appeal  to  the  landlord,"  said  Edward,  re 
covering  his  equanimity,  and  turning  to  Hugh,  who 
just  then  entered  the  room.  "  Who  is  this  angel,  mine 
host,  that  has  taken  up  her  abode  in  the  Hand  and 
Bottle  ?  " 

Hugh  cast  a  quick  glance  from  one  to  another  be 
fore  he  answered,  "  I  keep  no  angels  here,  gentlemen. 
Dame  Crombie  would  make  the  house  anything  but 
heaven  for  them  and  me." 

"  And  yet  Glover  has  seen  a  vision  in  the  passage 
way,  —  a  lady  with  a  small  white  hand." 

"  Ah,  I  understand  !  A  slight  mistake  of  the  young 
gentleman's,"  said  Hugh,  with  the  air  of  one  who 


132  FANS II A  WE. 

could  perfectly  account  for  the  mystery.  "  Our  pas 
sageway  is  dark ;  or  perhaps  the  light  had  dazzled  his 
eyes.  It  was  the  Widow  Fowler's  daughter,  that  came 
to  borrow  a  pipe  of  tobacco  for  her  mother.  By  the 
same  token,  she  put  it  into  her  own  sweet  mouth,  and 
puffed  as  she  went  along." 

"  But  the  white  hand,"  said  Glover,  only  half  con 
vinced. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,"  answered  Hugh.  "  But  her 
hand  was  at  least  as  white  as  her  face :  that  I  can 
swear.  Well,  gentlemen,  I  trust  you  find  everything 
in  my  house  to  your  satisfaction.  When  the  fire  needs 
renewing,  or  the  wine  runs  low,  be  pleased  to  tap  on 
the  table.  I  shall  appear  with  the  speed  of  a  sunbeam." 

After  the  departure  of  the  landlord,  the  conversa 
tion  of  the  young  men  amounted  to  little  more  than 
monosyllables.  Edward  Walcott  was  wrapped  in  his 
own  contemplations ;  and  his  companion  was  in  a  half- 
slumberous  state,  from  which  he  started  every  quarter 
of  an  hour,  at  the  chiming  of  the  clock  that  stood  in  a 
corner.  The  fire  died  gradually  away  ;  the  lamps  be 
gan  to  burn  dim  ;  and  Glover,  rousing  himself  from 
one  of  his  periodical  slumbers,  was  about  to  propose 
a  return  to  their  chambers.  He  was  prevented,  how 
ever,  by  the  approach  of  footsteps  along  the  passage 
way  ;  and  Hugh  Crombie,  opening  the  door,  ushered  a 
person  into  the  room,  and  retired. 

The  new  -  comer  was  Fanshawe.  The  water  that 
poured  plentifully  from  his  cloak  evinced  that  he  had 
but  just  arrived  at  the  inn  ;  but,  whatever  was  his 
object,  he  seemed  not  to  have  attained  it  in  meeting 
with  the  young  men.  He  paused  near  the  door,  as  if 
meditating  whether  to  retire. 

"  My  intrusion   is   altogether  owing  to   a  mistake, 


FANSHAWE.  133 

either  of  the  landlord's  or  mine,"  he  said.  "  I  caine 
hither  to  seek  another  person  ;  but,  as  I  could  not 
mention  his  name,  my  inquiries  were  rather  vague. v 

"  I  thank  Heaven  for  the  chance  that  sent  you  to 
us,"  replied  Edward,  rousing  himself.  "  Glover  is 
wretched  company  :  and  a  duller  evening  have  I  never 
spent.  We  will  renew  our  fire  and  our  wine,  and  you 
must  sit  down  with  us.  And  for  the  man  you  seek," 
he  continued  in  a  whisper,  "  he  left  the  inn  within  a 
half -hour  after  we  encountered  him.  I  inquired  of 
Hugh  Crombie  last  night." 

Fanshawe  did  not  express  his  doubts  of  the  correct 
ness  of  the  information  on  which  Edward  seemed  to 
rely.  Laying  aside  his  cloak,  he  accepted  his  invita 
tion  to  make  one  of  the  party,  and  sat  down  by  the 
fireside. 

The  aspect  of  the  evening  now  gradually  changed. 
A  strange  wild  glee  spread  from  one  to  another  of  the 
party,  which,  much  to  the  surprise  of  his  companions, 
begun  with  and  was  communicated  from,  Fanshawe. 
He  seemed  to  overflow  with  conceptions  inimitably  lu 
dicrous,  but  so  singular,  that,  till  his  hearers  had  im 
bibed  a  portion  of  his  own  spirit,  they  could  only  won 
der  at,  instead  of  enjoying  them.  His  applications  to 
the  wine  were  very  un frequent ;  yet  his  conversation 
was  such  as  one  might  expect  from  a  bottle  of  cham 
pagne  endowed  by  a  fairy  with  the  gift  of  speech. 
The  secret  of  this  strange  mirth  lay  in  the  troubled 
state  of  his  spirits,  which,  like  the  vexed  ocean  at  mid 
night  (if  the  simile  be  not  too  magnificent),  tossed 
forth  a  mysterious  brightness.  The  undefined  appre 
hensions  that  had  drawn  him  to  the  inn  still  distracted 
his  mind  ;  but,  mixed  with  them,  there  was  a  sort  of 
joy  not  easily  to  be  described.  By  degrees,  and  by  the 


134  FANSHA  WE. 

assistance  of  the  wine,  the  inspiration  spread,  each  one 
contributing  such  a  quantity,  and  such  quality  of  wit 
and  whim,  as  was  proportioned  to  his  genius ;  but  each 
one,  and  all,  displaying  a  greater  share  of  both  than 
they  had  ever  been  suspected  of  possessing. 

At  length,  however,  there  was  a  pause,  —  the  deep 
pause  of  flagging  spirits,  that  always  follows  mirth 
and  wine.  No  one  would  have  believed,  on  beholding 
the  pensive  faces,  and  hearing  the  involuntary  sighs  of 
the  party,  that  from  these,  but  a  moment  before,  had 
arisen  so  loud  and  wild  a  laugh.  During  this  interval 
Edward  Walcott  (who  was  the  poet  of  his  class)  vol 
unteered  the  following  song,  which,  from  its  want  of 
polish,  and  from  its  application  to  his  present  feelings, 
might  charitably  be  taken  for  an  extemporaneous  pro 
duction  :  — 

The  wine  is  bright,  the  wine  is  bright ; 

And  gay  the  drinkers  be  : 
Of  all  that  drain  the  bowl  to-night, 

Most  jollily  drain  we. 
Oh,  could  one  search  the  weary  earth,  — 

The  earth  from  sea  to  sea,  — 
He  'd  turn  and  mingle  in  our  mirth ; 

For  we  're  the  merriest  three. 

Yet  there  are  cares,  oh,  heavy  cares  ! 

We  know  that  they  are  nigh  : 
When  forth  each  lonely  drinker  fares, 

Mark  then  his  altered  eye. 
Care  comes  upon  us  when  the  jest 

And  frantic  laughter  die ; 
And  care  Avill  watch  the  parting  guest  — 

Oh  late,  then  let  us  fly  ! 

Hugh  Crombie,  whose  early  love  of  song  and  min 
strelsy  was  still  alive,  had  entered  the  room  at  the 
sound  of  Edward's  voice,  in  sufficient  time  to  accom 
pany  the  second  stanza  on  the  violin.  He  now,  with 


FAXSIIAWE.  135 

the  air  of  one  who  was  entitled  to  judge  in  these  mat 
ters,  expressed  his  opinion  of  the  performance. 

"  Really,  Master  Walcott,  I  was  not  prepared  for 
this,"  he  said  in  the  tone  of  condescending  praise  that 
a  great  man  uses  to  his  inferior  when  he  chooses  to 
overwhelm  him  with  excess  of  joy.  "  Very  well,  in 
deed,  young  gentleman  !  Some  of  the  lines,  it  is  true, 
seem  to  have  been  dragged  in  by  the  head  and  shoul 
ders  ;  but  I  could  scarcely  have  done  much  better  my 
self  at  your  age.  With  practice,  and  with  such  in 
struction  as  I  might  afford  you,  I  should  have  little 
doubt  of  your  becoming  a  distinguished  poet,  A  great 
defect  in  your  seminary,  gentlemen,  —  the  want  of  due 
cultivation  in  this  heavenly  art." 

"  Perhaps,  sir,"  said  Edward,  with  much  gravity, 
"  you  might  yourself  be  prevailed  upon  to  accept  the 
professorship  of  poetry?  " 

"  Why,  such  an  offer  would  require  consideration," 
replied  the  landlord.  "Professor  Hugh  Crombie  of 
Harley  College  :  it  has  a  good  sound,  assuredly.  But 
I  am  a  public  man,  Master  Walcott ;  and  the  public 
would  be  loath  to  spare  me  from  my  present  office." 

"  Will  Professor  Crombie  favor  us  with  a  specimen 
of  his  productions  ?  "  inquired  Edward. 

"  Ahem,  I  shall  be  happy  to  gratify  you,  young 
gentleman,"  answered  Hugh.  "  It  is  seldom,  in  this 
rude  country,  Master  Walcott,  that  we  meet  with 
kindred  genius  ;  and  the  opportunity  should  never  be 
thrown  away." 

Thus  saying,  he  took  a  heavy  draught  of  the  liquor 
by  which  he  was  usually  inspired,  and  the  praises  of 
which  were  the  prevailing  subject  of  his  song  ;  then, 
after  much  hemming,  thrumming,  and  prelusion,  and 
with  many  queer  gestures  and  gesticulations,  he  began 
to  effuse  a  lyric  in  the  following  fashion :  — 


136  FANS  HA  WE. 

I  've  been  a  jolly  drinker  this  five -ami-twenty  year, 
And  still  a  jolly  drinker,  my  friends,  you  see  me  here : 
I  sing  the  joys  of  drinking;  bear  a  chorus,  every  man, 
With  pint  pot  and  quart  pot  and  clattering  of  can. 

The  sense  of  the  professor's  first  stanza  was  not  in 
exact  proportion  to  the  sound;  but,  being  executed 
with  great  spirit,  it  attracted  universal  applause.  This 
Hugh  appropriated  with  a  condescending  bow  and 
smile;  and,  making  a  signal  for  silence,  he  went  on,— 

King  Solomon  of  old,  boys  (a  jolly  king  was  he),  — 

But  here  he  was  interrupted  by  a  clapping  of  hands, 
that  seemed  a  continuance  of  the  applause  bestowed 
on  his  former  stanza.  Hugh  Crombie,  who,  as  is  the 
custom  of  many  great  performers,  usually  sang  with 
his  eyes  shut,  now  opened  them,  intending  gently  to 
rebuke  his  auditors  for  their  unseasonable  expression 
of  delight.  He  immediately  perceived,  however,  that 
the  fault  was  to  be  attributed  to  neither  of  the  three 
young  men  ;  and,  following  the  direction  of  their  eyes, 
he  saw  near  the  door,  in  the  dim  background  of  the 
apartment,  a  figure  in  a  cloak.  The  hat  was  flapped 
forward,  the  cloak  muffled  round  the  lower  part  of  the 
face ;  and  only  the  eyes  were  visible. 

The  party  gazed  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then 
rushed  en  masse  upon  the  intruder,  the  landlord 
bringing  up  the  rear,  and  sounding  a  charge  upon  his 
fiddle.  But,  as  they  drew  nigh,  the  black  cloak  began 
to  assume  a  familiar  look ;  the  hat,  also,  was  an  old 
acquaintance ;  and,  these  being  removed,  from  beneath 
them  shone  forth  the  reverend  face  and  form  of  Dr. 
Melmoth. 

The  president,  in  his  quality  of  clergyman,  had,  late 
in  the  preceding  afternoon,  been  called  to  visit  an 
aged  female  who  was  supposed  to  be  at  the  j^oint  of 


FAXSHAWE.  137 

death.  Her  habitation  was  at  the  distance  of  several 
miles  from  Harley  College  ;  so  that  it  was  nightfall 
before  Dr.  Melmoth  stood  at  her  bedside.  His  stay 
had  been  lengthened  beyond  his  anticipation,  on  ac 
count  of  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  he  found  the  dy 
ing  woman  ;  and,  after  essaying  to  impart  the  comforts 
of  religion  to  her  disturbed  intellect,  he  had  waited 
for  the  abatement  of  the  storm  that  had  arisen  while 
he  was  thus  engaged.  As  the  evening  advanced,  how 
ever,  the  rain  poured  down  in  undiminished  cataracts ; 
and  the  doctor,  trusting  to  the  prudence  and  stire- 
footedness  of  his  steed,  had  at  length  set  forth  on  his 

O 

return.  The  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the  roughness 
of  the  road,  might  have  appalled  him,  even  had  his 
horsemanship  and  his  courage  been  more  considerable 
than  they  were  ;  but  by  the  special  protection  of  Prov 
idence,  as  he  reasonably  supposed  (for  he  was  a  good 
man,  and  on  a  good  errand),  he  arrived  safety  as  far 
as  Hugfh  Crombie's  inn.  Dr.  Melmoth  had  no  inten- 

O 

tion  of  making  a  stay  there ;  but,  as  the  road  passed 
within  a  very  short  distance,  he  saw  lights  in  the  win 
dows,  and  heard  the  sound  of  song  and  revelry.  It 
immediately  occurred  to  him,  that  these  midnight 
rioters  were,  probably,  some  of  the  young  men  of  his 
charge  ;  and  he  was  impelled,  by  a  sense  of  duty,  to 
enter  and  disperse  them.  Directed  by  the  voices,  he 
found  his  way,  with  some  difficulty,  to  the  apartment, 
just  as  Hugh  concluded  his  first  stanza ;  and,  amidst 
the  subsequent  applause,  his  entrance  had  been  im- 
perceived. 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  moment's  continuance  after 
the  discovery  of  Dr.  Melmoth,  during  which  he  at 
tempted  to  clothe  his  round,  good-natured  face  in  a 
look  of  awful  dignity.  But,  in  spite  of  himself,  there 


138  FANSHA  WE. 

was  a  little  twisting  of  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
a  smothered  gleam  in  his  eye. 

"  This  has,  apparently,  been  a  very  merry  meeting, 
young  gentlemen,"  he  at  length  said  ;  "  but  I  fear  my 
presence  has  cast  a  damp  upon  it." 

"  Oh  yes !  your  reverence's  cloak  is  wet  enough  to 
cast  a  damp  upon  anything,"  exclaimed  Hugh  Crom- 
bie,  assuming  a  look  of  tender  anxiety.  "  The  young 
gentlemen  are  affrighted  for  your  valuable  life.  Fear 
deprives  them  of  utterance :  permit  me  to  relieve  you 
of  these  dangerous  garments." 

"  Trouble  not  yourself,  honest  man,"  replied  the 
doctor,  who  was  one  of  the  most  gullible  of  mortals. 
"  I  trust  I  am  in  no  danger ;  my  dwelling  being  near 
at  hand.  But  for  these  young  men  "  — 

"  Would  your  reverence  but  honor  my  Sunday  suit, 
—  the  gray  broadcloth  coat,  and  the  black  velvet 
smallclothes,  that  have  covered  my  unworthy  legs  but 
once?  Dame  Crombie  shall  have  them  ready  in  a 
moment,"  continued  Hugh,  beginning  to  divest  the 
doctor  of  his  garments. 

"  I  pray  you  to  appease  your  anxiety,"  cried  Dr. 
Melmoth,  retaining  a  firm  hold  on  such  parts  of  his 
dress  as  yet  remained  to  him.  "  Fear  not  for  my 
health.  I  will  but  speak  a  word  to  those  misguided 
youth,  and  be  gone." 

"Misguided  youth,  did  your  reverence  say?  "  echoed 
Hugh,  in  a  tone  of  utter  astonishment.  "  Never  were 
they  better  guided  than  when  they  entered  my  poor 
house.  Oh,  had  your  reverence  but  seen  them,  when  I 
heard  their  cries,  and  rushed  forth  to  their  assistance. 
Dripping  with  wet  were  they,  like  three  drowned  men 
at  the  resurrec  —  Ahem  !  "  interrupted  Hugh,  rec 
ollecting  that  the  comparison  he  meditated  mignt  not 
suit  the  doctor's  ideas  of  propriety. 


FANSHAWE.  139 

"  But  why  were  they  abroad  on  such  a  night  ?  "  in 
quired  the  president. 

"  Ali  I  doctor,  you  little  know  the  love  these  good 
young  gentlemen  bear  for  you,"  replied  the  landlord. 
"  Your  absence,  your  long  absence,  had  alarmed  them  ; 
and  they  rushed  forth  through  the  rain  and  darkness 
to  seek  you." 

"  And  was  this  indeed  so  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  in  a 
softened  tone,  and  casting  a  tender  and  grateful  look 
upon  the  three  students.  They,  it  is  but  justice  to 
mention,  had  simultaneously  made  a  step  forward  in 
order  to  contradict  the  egregious  falsehoods  of  which 
Hugh's  fancy  was  so  fertile ;  but  he  assumed  an  ex 
pression  of  such  ludicrous  entreaty,  that  it  was  irre 
sistible. 

;t  But  methinks  their  anxiety  was  not  of  long  con 
tinuance,"  observed  Dr.  Melmoth,  looking  at  the  wine, 
and  remembering  the  song  that  his  entrance  had  in 
terrupted. 

"  Ah !  your  reverence  disapproves  of  the  wine,  I 
see,"  answered  Hugh  Cronibie.  "  I  did  but  offer  them 
a  drop  to  keep  the  life  in  their  poor  young  hearts. 
My  dame  advised  strong  waters  ;  '  But,  Dame  Crorn- 
bie,'  says  I,  '  would  ye  corrupt  their  youth  ? '  And  in 
my  zeal  for  their  good,  doctor,  I  was  delighting  them, 
just  at  your  entrance,  with  a  pious  little  melody  of  my 
own  against  the  sin  of  drunkenness." 

"  Truly,  I  remember  something  of  the  kind,"  ob 
served  Dr.  Melmoth.  4i  And,  as  I  think,  it  seemed  to 
meet  with  good  acceptance." 

"  Ay,  that  it  did  ! "  said  the  landlord.  "  Will  it 
please  your  reverence  to  hear  it  ?  — 

King  Solomon  of  old,  boys  (a  wise  man  I  'm  thinking), 
Has  warned  vou  to  beware  of  the  horrid  vice  of  drinking  — 


140  FANSHAWE. 

But  why  talk  I  of  drinking,  foolish  man  that  I  am  1 
And  all  this  time,  doctor,  you  have  not  sipped  a  drop 
of  my  wine.  Now  I  entreat  your  reverence,  as  you 
value  your  health  and  the  peace  and  quiet  of  these 
youth." 

Dr.  Melmoth  drank  a  glass  of  wine,  with  the  be 
nevolent  intention  of  allaying  the  anxiety  of  Hugh 
Crombie  and  the  students.  He  then  prepared  to  de 
part  ;  for  a  strong  wind  had  partially  dispersed  the 
clouds,  and  occasioned  an  interval  in  the  cataract  of 
rain.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  little  suspicion  yet  re 
maining  in  the  good  man's  mind  respecting  the  truth 
of  the  landlord's  story :  at  least,  it  was  his  evident 
intention  to  see  the  students  fairly  out  of  the  inn  be 
fore  he  quitted  it  himself.  They  therefore  proceeded 
along  the  passageway  in  a  body.  The  lamp  that  Hugh 
Crombie  held  but  dimly  enlightened  them ;  and  the 
number  and  contiguity  of  the  doors  caused  Dr.  Mel- 
moth  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the  wrong  one. 

"  Not  there,  not  there,  doctor  !  It  is  Dame  Cr'om- 
bie's  bedchamber,"  shouted  Hugh,  most  energetically. 
"  Now  Beelzebub  defend  me  ! "  he  muttered  to  him 
self,  perceiving  that  his  exclamation  had  been  a  mo 
ment  too  late. 

"  Heavens !  what  do  I  see  ? "  ejaculated  Dr.  Mel- 
moth,  lifting  his  hands,  and  starting  back  from  the 
entrance  of  the  room.  The  three  students  pressed  for- 
ward  •,  Mrs.  Crombie  and  the  servant-girl  had  been 
drawn  to  the  spot  by  the  sound  of  Hugh's  voice ;  and 
all  their  wondering  eyes  were  fixed  on  poor  Ellen 
Langton. 

The  apartment  in  the  midst  of  which  she  stood  was 
dimly  lighted  by  a  solitary  candle  at  the  farther  ex- 
tremity;  but  Ellen  was  exposed  to  the  glare  of  the 


FANS  HA  WE.  141 

three  lamps,  held  by  Hugh,  his  wife,  and  the  servant- 
girl.  Their  combined  rays  seemed  to  form  a  focus 
exactly  at  the  point  where  they  reached  her  ;  and  the 
beholders,  had  any  been  sufficiently  calm,  might  have 
watched  her  features  in  their  agitated  workings  and 
frequent  change  of  expression,  as  perfectly  as  by  the 
broad  light  of  day.  Terror  had  at  first  blanched  her 
as  white  as  a  lily,  or  as  a  marble  statue,  which  for  a 
moment  she  resembled,  as  she  stood  motionless  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  Shame  next  bore  sway ;  and  her 
blushing  countenance,  covered  by  her  slender  white 
fingers,  might  fantastically  be  compared  to  a  variegated 
rose  with  its  alternate  stripes  of  white  and  red.  The 
next  instant,  a  sense  of  her  pure  and  innocent  inten 
tions  gave  her  strength  and  courage  ;  and  her  attitude 
and  look  had  now  something  of  pride  and  dignity. 
These,  however,  in  their  turn,  gave  way  ;  for  Edward 
Walcott  pressed  forward,  and  attempted  to  address 
her. 

"  Ellen,  Ellen  !  "  he  said,  in  an  agitated  and  quiv 
ering  whisper ;  but  what  was  to  follow  cannot  be 
known  ;  for  his  emotion  checked  his  utterance.  His 
tone  and  look,  however,  again  overcame  Ellen  Lang- 
ton,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  Fanshawe  advanced, 
and  took  Edward's  arm.  "  She  has  been  deceived,*' 
he  whispered.  "  She  is  innocent :  you  are  unworthy 
of  her  if  you  doubt  it." 

k'  Why  do  you  interfere,  sir  ?  "  demanded  Edward, 
whose  passions,  thoroughly  excited,  would  willingly 
have  wreaked  themselves  on  any  one.  "  What  right 
have  you  to  speak  of  her  innocence  ?  Perhaps,"  he 
continued,  an  undefined  and  ridiculous  suspicion  aris 
ing  in  his  mind,  —  u  perhaps  you  are  acquainted  with 
her  intentions.  Perhaps  you  are  the  deceiver." 


142  FANSHAWE. 

Fanshawe's  temper  was  not  naturally  of  the  meekest 
character ;  and  having-  had  a  thousand  bitter  feelings 
of  his  own  to  overcome,  before  he  could  attempt  to 
console  Edward,  this  rude  repulse  had  almost  aroused 
him  to  fierceness.  But  his  pride,  of  which  a  more 
moderate  degree  would  have  had  a  less  peaceable  effect, 
came  to  his  assistance ;  and  he  turned  calmly  and  con 
temptuously  away. 

Ellen,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  restored  to  some 
degree  of  composure.  To  this  effect,  a  feeling  of  pique 
against  Edward  Walcott  had  contributed.  She  had 
distinguished  his  voice  in  the  neighboring  apartment, 
had  heard  his  mirth  and  wild  laughter,  without  being 
aware  of  the  state  of  feeling  that  produced  them.  She 
had  supposed  that  the  terms  on  which  they  parted  in 
the  morning  (which  had  been  very  grievous  to  her 
self)  would  have  produced  a  corresponding  sadness  in 
him.  But  while  she  sat  in  loneliness  and  in  tears,  her 
bosom  distracted  by  a  thousand  anxieties  and  sorrows, 
of  many  of  which  Edward  was  the  object,  his  reckless 
gayety  had  seemed  to  prove  the  slight  regard  in  which 
he  held  her.  After  the  first  outbreak  of  emotion, 
therefore,  she  called  up  her  pride  (of  which,  on  proper 
occasions,  she  had  a  reasonable  share),  and  sustained 
his  upbraiding  glance  with  a  passive  composure,  which 
women  have  more  readily  at  command  than  men. 

Dr.  Melmoth's  surprise  had  during  this  time  kept 
him  silent  and  inactive.  He  gazed  alternately  from 
one  to  another  of  those  who  stood  around  him,  as  if 
to  seek  some  explanation  of  so  strange  an  event.  But 
the  faces  of-  all  were  as  perplexed  as  his  own ;  even 
Plugh  Crombie  had  assumed  a  look  of  speechless  won 
der,  —  speechless,  because  his  imagination,  prolific  as 
it  was,  could  not  supply  a  plausible  falsehood. 


FANSHA  WE.  143 

ei  Ellen,  dearest  child,"  at  length  said  the  doctor, 
48  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  " 

Ellen  endeavored  to  reply ;  but,  as  her  composure 
was  merely  external,  she  was  unable  to  render  her 
words  audible.  Fanshawe  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  Dr. 
Melmoth,  who  appeared  grateful  for  his  advice. 

"  True,  it  will  be  the  better  way,"  he  replied.  "  Mv 
wits  are  utterly  confounded,  or  I  should  not  have  re 
mained  thus  long.  Come,  my  dear  child,"  he  contin 
ued,  advancing  to  Ellen,  and  taking  her  hand,  "  let  us 
return  home,  and  defer  the  explanation  till  the  mor 
row.  There,  there  :  only  dry  your  eyes,  and  we  will 
say  no  more  about  it." 

"  And  that  will  be  your  wisest  way,  old  gentleman," 
muttered  Hugh  Crombie. 

Ellen  at  first  exhibited  but  little  desire,  or,  rather, 
an  evident  reluctance,  to  accompany  her  guardian. 
She  hung  back,  while  her  glance  passed  almost  imper 
ceptibly  over  the  faces  that  gazed  so  eagerly  at  her ; 
but  the  one  she  sought  was  not  visible  among  them. 
She  had  no  alternative,  and  suffered  herself  to  be  led 
from  the  inn. 

Edward  "Walcott  alone  remained  behind,  the  most 
wretched  being  (at  least  such  was  his  own  opinion) 
that  breathed  the  vital  air.  He  felt  a  sinking  and 
sickness  of  the  heart,  and  alternately  a  feverish 
frenzy,  neither  of  which  his  short  and  cloudless  exis 
tence  had  heretofore  occasioned  him  to  experience. 
He  was  jealous  of,  he  knew  not  whom,  and  he  knew 
not  what.  He  was  ungenerous  enough  to  believe  that 

O  O 

Ellen  —  his  pure  and  lovely  Ellen  —  had  degraded 
herself ;  though  from  what  motive,  or  by  whose  agency, 
he  could  not  conjecture.  When  Dr.  Melmoth  had 
taken  her  in  charge,  Edwdr  J  returned  to  the  apart- 


144  FANSIIAWE. 

ment  where  he  had  spent  the  evening.  The  wine  was 
still  upon  the  table  ;  and,  in  the  desperate  hope  of  stu* 
pefying  his  faculties,  he  unwisely  swallowed  huge  suc 
cessive  draughts.  The  effect  of  his  imprudence  was 
not  long  in  manifesting  itself ;  though  insensibility, 
which  at  another  time  would  have  been  the  result,  did 
not  now  follow.  Acting  upon  his  previous  agitation., 
the  wine  seemed  to  set  his  blood  in  a  flame ;  and,  for 
the  time  being,  he  was  a  perfect  madman. 

A  phrenologist  would  probably  have  found  the  or 
gan  of  destructive-ness  in  strong  development,  just 
then,  upon  Edward's  cranium ;  for  he  certainly  mani 
fested  an  impulse  to  break  and  destroy  whatever 
chanced  to  be  within  his  reach.  He  commenced  his 
operations  by  upsetting  the  table,  and  breaking  the 
bottles  and  glasses.  Then,  seizing  a  tall  heavy  chair 
in  each  hand,  he  hurled  them  with  prodigious  force,  — 
one  through  the  window,  and  the  other  against  a  large 
looking-glass,  the  most  valuable  article  of  furniture 
in  Hugh  Crombie's  inn.  The  crash  and  clatter  of 
these  outrageous  proceedings  soon  brought  the  master, 
mistress,  and  maid-servant  to  the  scene  of  action ;  but 
the  two  latter,  at  the  first  sight  of  Edward's  wild  de 
meanor  and  gleaming  eyes,  retreated  with  all  imag 
inable  expedition.  Hugh  chose  a  position  behind  the 
door,  from  whence,  protruding  his  head,  he  endeavored 
to  mollify  his  inebriated  guest.  His  interference,  how 
ever,  had  nearly  been  productive  of  most  unfortunate 
consequences ;  for  a  massive  andiron,  with  round  bra- 
zeii  head,  whizzed  past  him,  within  a  hair's  -  breadth 
of  his  ear. 

"  I  might  as  safely  take  my  chance  in  a  battle,"  ex 
claimed  Hugh,  withdrawing  his  head,  and  speaking  to 
a  man  who  stood  in  the  passageway.  "  A  little  twist 


FANSHA  WE.  145 

of  his  hand  to  the  left  would  have  served  my  turn  as 
well  as  if  I  stood  in  the  path  of  a  forty-two  pound 
ball.  And  here  comes  another  broadside,"  he  added, 
as  some  other  article  of  furniture  rattled  against  the 
door. 

"  Let  us  return  his  fire,  Hugh,"  said  the  person 
whom  he  addressed,  composedly  lifting  the  andiron. 
"  He  is  in  want  of  ammunition :  let  us  send  him  back 
his  own." 

The  sound  of  this  man's  voice  produced  a  most  sin 
gular  effect  upon  Edward.  The  moment  before,  his 
actions  had  been  those  of  a  raving  maniac  ;  but,  when 
the  words  struck  his  ear,  he  paused,  put  his  hand  to 
his  forehead,  seemed  to  recollect  himself,  and  finally 
advanced  with  a  firm  and  steady  step.  His  counte 
nance  was  dark  and  angry,  but  no  longer  wild. 

"  I  have  found  you,  villain  !  "  he  said  to  the  angler. 
"It  is  you  who  have  done  this." 

"  And,  having  done  it,  the  wrath  of  a  boy  —  his 
drunken  wrath  —  will  not  induce  me  to  deny  it,"  re 
plied  the  other,  scornfully. 

u  The  boy  will  require  a  man's  satisfaction,"  re 
turned  Edward,  "  and  that  speedily." 

"  Will  you  take  it  now  ?  "  inquired  the  angler,  with 
a  cool,  derisive  smile,  and  almost  in  a  whisper.  At 
the  same  time  he  produced  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  held 
them  towards  the  young  man. 

"  Willingly,"  answered  Edward,  taking  one  of  the 
weapons.  "  Choose  your  distance." 

The  angler  stepped  back  a  pace  ;  but  before  their 
deadly  intentions,  so  suddenly  conceived,  could  be  ex 
ecuted,  Hugh  Crombie  interposed  himself  between 
them. 

"  Do  you  take  my  best  parlor  for  the  cabin  of  the 

VOL.  xi.  10 


146  FA  NSHAWE. 

Black  Andrew,  where  a  pistol-shot  was  a  nightly  pas 
time  ?  "  he  inquired  of  his  comrade.  "  And  you,  Mas 
ter  Edward,  with  what  sort  of  a  face  will  you  walk 
into  the  chapel  to  morning  prayers,  after  putting  a 
ball  through  this  man's  head,  or  receiving  one  through 
your  own  ?  Though,  in  this  last  case,  you  will  be 
past  praying  for,  or  praying  either." 

"  Stand  aside :  I  will  take  the  risk.  Make  way,  or 
I  will  put  the  ball  through  your  own  head,"  exclaimed 
Edward,  fiercely :  for  the  interval  of  rationality  that 
circumstances  had  produced  was  again  giving  way  to 
intoxication. 

"  You  see  how  it  is,"  said  Hugh  to  his  companion, 
unheard  by  Edward.  "  You  shall  take  a  shot  at  me, 
sooner  than  at  the  poor  lad  in  his  present  state.  You 
have  done  him  harm  enough  already,  and  intend  him 
more.  I  propose,"  he  continued  aloud,  and  with  a 
peculiar  glance  towards  the  angler,  "  that  this  affair 
be  decided  to-morrow,  at  nine  o'clock,  under  the  old 
oak,  on  the  bank  of  the  stream.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
will  take  charge  of  these  popguns,  for  fear  of  acci 
dents." 

"  Well,  mine  host,  be  it  as  you  wish,"  said  his  com 
rade.  "  A  shot  more  or  less  is  of  little  consequence  to 
me."  He  accordingly  delivered  his  weapon  to  Hugh 
Crombie  and  walked  carelessly  away. 

"  Come,  Master  Walcott,  the  enemy  has  retreated. 
Victoria !  And  now,  I  see,  the  sooner  I  get  you  to 
your  chamber,  the  better,"  added  he  aside;  for  the 
wine  was  at  last  beginning  to  produce  its  legitimate 
effect,  in  stupefying  the  young  man's  mental  and  bod 
ily  faculties. 

Hugh  Crombie's  assistance,  though  not,  perhaps, 
quite  indispensable,  was  certainly  very  convenient  to 


FANSHAWE.  147 

our  unfortunate  hero,  in  the  course  of  the  short  walk 
that  brought  him  to  his  chamber.  When  arrived 
there,  and  in  bed,  he  was  soon  locked  in  a  sleep 
scarcely  less  deep  than  that  of  death. 

The  weather,  during  the  last  hour,  had  appeared  to 
be  on  the  point  of  changing :  indeed,  there  were,  every 
few  minutes,  most  rapid  changes.  A  strong  breeze 
sometimes  drove  the  clouds  from  the  brow  of  heaven, 
so  as  to  disclose  a  few  of  the  stars ;  but,  immediately 
after,  the  darkness  would  again  become  Egyptian,  and 
the  rain  rush  like  a  torrent  from  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

**  About  her  neck  a  packet-mail 
Fraught  with  advice,  some  fresh,  some  stale, 
Of  men  that  walked  when  they  were  dead." 

HUDIBRAS. 

SCAECELY  a  word  had  passed  between  Dr.  Melmoth 
and  Ellen  Langtoii,  on  their  way  home ;  for,  though 
the  former  was  aware  that  his  duty  towards  his  ward 
would  compel  him  to  inquire  into  the  motives  of  her 
conduct,  the  tenderness  of  his  heart  prompted  him  to 
defer  the  scrutiny  to  the  latest  moment.  The  same 
tenderness  induced  him  to  connive  at  Ellen's  stealing 
secretly  up  to  her  chamber,  unseen  by  Mrs.  Melmoth; 
to  render  which  measure  practicable,  he  opened  the 
house-door  very  softly,  and  stood  before  his  half-sleep 
ing  spouse  (who  waited  his  arrival  in  the  parlor)  with 
out  any  previous  notice.  This  act  of  the  doctor's  be 
nevolence  was  not  destitute  of  heroism ;  for  he  was 
well  assured  that,  should  the  affair  come  to  the  lady's 
knowledge  through  any  other  channel,  her  vengeance 
would  descend  not  less  heavily  on  him  for  concealing, 
than  on  Ellen  for  perpetrating,  the  elopement.  That 
she  had,  thus  far,  no  suspicion  of  the  fact,  was  evident 
from  her  composure,  as  well  as  from  the  reply  to  a 
question,  which,  with  more  than  his  usual  art,  her  hus 
band  put  to  her  respecting  the  non-appearance  of  his 
ward.  Mrs.  Melmoth  answered,  that  Ellen  had  com 
plained  of  indisposition,  and  after  drinking,  by  her 
prescription,  a  large  cup  of  herb-tea,  had  retired  to 


FANSHAWE.  149 

her  chamber  early  in  the  evening.  Thankful  that  all 
was  yet  safe,  the  doctor  laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow ; 
but,  late  as  was  the  hour,  his  many  anxious  thoughts 
long  drove  sleep  from  his  eyelids. 

The  diminution  in  the  quantity  of  his  natural  rest 
did  not,  however,  prevent  Dr.  ^Jelmoth  from  rising  at 
his  usual  hour,  which  at  all  seasons  of  the  year  was  an 
early  one.  He  found,  on  descending  to  the  parlor, 
that  breakfast  was  nearly  in  readiness  ;  for  the  lady 
of  the  house  (and,  as  a  corollary,  her  servant-girl)  was 
not  accustomed  to  await  the  rising  of  the  sun  in  order 
to  commence  her  domestic  labors.  Ellen  Langton, 
however,  who  had  heretofore  assimilated  her  habits  to 
those  of  the  family,  was  this  morning  invisible,  —  a 
circumstance  imputed  by  Mrs.  Melinoth  to  her  indis 
position  of  the  preceding  evening,  and  by  the  doctor, 
to  mortification  on  account  of  her  elopement  and  its 
discovery. 

k*  I  think  I  will  step  into  Ellen's  bedchamber,"  said 
Mrs.  Melnioth,  "and  inquire  how  she  feels  herself. 
The  morning  is  delightful  after  the  storm,  and  the  air 
will  do  her  good." 

"  Had  we  not  better  proceed  with  our  breakfast  ? 
If  the  poor  child  is  sleeping,  it  were  a  pity  to  disturb 
her,"  observed  the  doctor ;  for,  besides  his  sympathy 
with  Ellen's  feelings,  he  was  reluctant,  as  if  he  were 
the  guilty  one,  to  meet  her  face. 

"  Well,  be  it  so.  And  now  sit  down,  doctor ;  for 
the  hot  cakes  are  cooling  fast.  I  suppose  you  will  say 
they  are  not  so  good  as  those  Ellen  made  j-esterday 
morning.  I  know  not  how  you  will  bear  to  part  with 
her,  though  the  thing  must  soon  be." 

44  It  will  be  a  sore  trial,  doubtless,'  replied  Dr.  Mel- 
moth,  —  "  like  tearing  away  a  branch  that  is  grafted 


150  FAN  SH AWE. 

011  an  old  tree.  And  yet  there  will  be  a  satisfaction 
in  delivering  her  safe  into  her  father's  hands.'' 

"  A  satisfaction  for  which  you  may  thank  me,  doc 
tor,"  observed  the  lady.  "  If  there  had  been  none  but 
you  to  look  after  the  poor  thing's  doings,  she  would 
have  been  enticed  awfiy  long  ere  this,  for  the  sake  of 
her  money." 

Dr.  Melmoth's  prudence  could  scarcely  restrain  a 
smile  at  the  thought  that  an  elopement,  as  he  had 
reason  to  believe,  had  been  plotted,  and  partly  carried 
into  execution,  while  Ellen  was  under  the  sole  care  of 
his  lady,  and  had  been  frustrated  only  by  his  own  de 
spised  agency.  He  was  not  accustomed,  however,  — 
nor  was  this  an  eligible  occasion,  —  to  dispute  any  of 
Mrs.  Melmoth's  claims  to  superior  wisdom. 

The  breakfast  proceeded  in  silence,  or,  at  least,  with 
out  any  conversation  material  to  the  tale.  At  its  con 
clusion,  Mrs.  Melmoth  was  again  meditating  on  the 
propriety  of  entering  Ellen's  chamber ;  but  she  was 
now  prevented  by  an  incident  that  always  excited 
much  interest  both  in  herself  and  her  husband. 

This  was  the  entrance  of  the  servant,  bearing  the 
letters  and  newspaper,  with  which,  once  a  fortnight,  the 
mail-carrier  journeyed  up  the  valley.  Dr.  Melmoth's 
situation  at  the  head  of  a  respectable  seminary,  and 
his  character  as  a  scholar,  had  procured  him  an  exten 
sive  correspondence  among  the  learned  men  of  his  own 
country ;  and  he  had  even  exchanged  epistles  with  one 
or  two  of  the  most  distinguished  dissenting  clergymen 
of  Great  Britain.  But,  unless  when  some  fond  mother 
enclosed  a  one-pound  note  to  defray  the  private  ex 
penses  of  her  son  at  college,  it  was  frequently  the  case 
that  the  packets  addressed  to  the  doctor  were  the  sole 
contents  of  the  mail-bag.  In  the  present  instance,  his 


FANSHAWE.  151 

letters  were  very  numerous,  and,  to  judge  from  the  one 
he  chanced  first  to  open,  of  an  unconscionable  length. 
"While  he  was  engaged  in  their  perusal,  Mrs.  Melmoth 
amused  herself  with  the  newspaper.  —  a  little  sheet  of 
about  twelve  inches  square,  which  had  but  one  rival 
in  the  country.  Commencing  with  the  title,  she  la 
bored  on  through  advertisements  old  and  new,  through 
poetry  lamentably  deficient  in  rhythm  and  rhymes, 
through  essays,  the  ideas  of  which  had  been  trite  since 
the  first  week  of  the  creation,  till  she  finally  arrived 
at  the  department  that,  a  fortnight  before,  had  con 
tained  the  latest  news  from  all  quarters.  Making  such 
remarks  upon  these  items  as  to  her  seemed  good,  the 
dame's  notice  was  at  length  attracted  by  an  article 
which  her  sudden  exclamation  proved  to  possess  un 
common  interest.  Casting  her  eye  hastily  over  it,  she 
immediately  began  to  read  aloud  to  her  husband ;  but 
he,  deeply  engaged  in  a  long  and  learned  letter,  in 
stead  of  listening  to  what  she  wished  to  communicate, 
exerted  his  own  lungs  in  opposition  to  hers,  as  is  the 
custom  of  abstracted  men  when  disturbed.  The  re 
sult  was  as  follows :  — 

"A  brig  just  arrived  in  the  outer  harbor/'  began 
Mrs.  Melmoth,  "  reports,  that  on  the  morning  of  the 
25th  ult."  —  Here  the  doctor  broke  in,  "  Wherefore 
I  am  compelled  to  differ  from  your  exposition  of  the 
said  passage,  for  those  reasons,  of  the  which  I  have 
given  you  a  taste ;  provided  ''  —  The  lady's  voice 
was  now  almost  audible,  "  ship  bottom  upward,  dis 
covered  by  the  name  on  her  stern  to  be  the  Ellen 
of  "  —  "  and  in  the  same  opinion  are  Hooker,  Cotton, 
and  divers  learned  divines  of  a  later  date." 

The  doctor's  lungs  were  deep  and  strong,  and  vic 
tory  seemed  to  incline  toward  him ;  but  Mrs.  Mel- 


152  FANSHAWE. 

moth  now  made  use  of  a  tone  whose  peculiar  shrill 
ness,  as  long  experience  had  taught  her  husband,  au 
gured  a  mood  of  mind  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

O 

"  On  my  word,  doctor,"  she  exclaimed,  "  this  is  most 
unfeeling  and  unchristian  conduct !  Here  am  I  en 
deavoring  to  inform  you  of  the  death  of  an  old  friend, 
and  you  continue  as  deaf  as  a  post." 

Dr.  Melmoth,  who  had  heard  the  sound,  without  re 
ceiving  the  sense,  of  these  words,  now  laid  aside  the 
letter  in  despair,  and  submissively  requested  to  be  in 
formed  of  her  pleasure. 

"  There,  read  for  yourself,"  she  replied,  handing 
him  the  paper,  and  pointing  to  the  passage  containing 
the  important  intelligence,  —  "  read,  and  then  finish 
your  letter,  if  you  have  a  mind." 

He  took  the  paper,  unable  to  conjecture  how  the 
dame  could  be  so  much  interested  in  any  part  of  its 
contents  ;  but,  before  he  had  read  many  words,  he 
grew  pale  as  death.  "  Good  Heavens !  what  is  this  ?  " 
he  exclaimed.  He  then  read  on,  "being  the  vessel 
wherein  that  eminent  son  of  New  England,  John 
Langton,  Esq.,  had  taken  passage  for  his  native  coun 
try,  after  an  absence  of  many  years." 

"  Our  poor  Ellen,  his  orphan  child !  "  said  Dr.  Mel- 
moth,  dropping  the  paper.  "  How  shall  we  break  the 
intelligence  to  her  ?  Alas  !  her  share  of  the  affliction 
causes  me  to  forget  my  own." 

"  It  is  a  heavy  misfortune,  doubtless ;  and  Ellen 
will  grieve  as  a  daughter  should,"  replied  Mrs.  Mel- 
moth,  speaking  with  the  good  sense  of  which  she  had 
a  competent  share.  "  But  she  has  never  known  her 
father  ;  and  her  sorrow  must  arise  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  more  than  from  strong  affection.  I  will  go  and 
inform  her  of  her  loss.  It  is  late,  and  I  wonder  if  she 
be  still  asleep." 


FA  NSHA  WE.  153 

"Be  cautious,  dearest  wife,''  said  the  doctor.  "Ellen 
has  strong  feelings,  and  a  sudden  shock  might  be  dan 
gerous." 

4- 1  think  I  may  be  trusted,  Dr.  Melmotlv'  replied 
the  lady,  who  had  a  high  opinion  of  her  own  abilities 
as  a  comforter,  and  was  not  averse  to  exercise  them. 

Her  husband,  after  her  departure,  sat  listlessly  turn 
ing  over  the  letters  that  yet  remained  unopened,  feel 
ing  little  curiosity,  after  such  melancholy  intelligence, 
respecting  their  contents.  But,  by  the  handwriting  of 
the  direction  on  one  of  them,  his  attention  was  grad 
ually  arrested,  till  he  found  himself  gazing  earnestly 
on  those  strong,  firm,  regular  characters.  They  were 
perfectly  familiar  to  his  eye ;  but  from  what  hand  they 
came,  he  coidd  not  conjecture.  Suddenly,  however, 
the  truth  burst  upon  him ;  and  after  noticing  the  date, 
and  reading  a  few  lines,  he  rushed  hastily  in  pursuit 
of  his  wife. 

He  had  arrived  at  the  top  of  his  speed  and  at  the 
middle  of  the  staircase,  when  his  course  was  arrested 
by  the  lady  whom  he  sought,  who  came,  with  a  veloc 
ity  equal  to  his  own,  in  an  opposite  direction.  The 
consequence  was  a  concussion  between  the  two  meet 
ing  masses,  by  which  Mrs.  Melmoth  was  seated  se 
curely  on  the  stairs  ;  while  the  doctor  was  only  pre 
served  from  precipitation  to  the  bottom  by  clinging 
desperately  to  the  balustrade.  As  soon  as  the  pair 
discovered  that  they  had  sustained  no  material  injury 
by  their  contact,  they  began  eagerly  to  explain  the 
cause  of  their  mutual  haste,  without  those  reproaches, 
which,  on  the  lady's  part,  would  at  another  time  have 
followed  such  an  accident. 

"You  have  not  told  her  the  bad  news,  I  trust?" 
cried  Dr.  Melmoth,  after  each  had  communicated  his 


154  FAN SH A  WE. 

and  her  intelligence,  without  obtaining  audience  of  the 
other. 

"  Would  you  have  me  tell  it  to  the  bare  walls  ?  "  in 
quired  the  lady  in  her  shrillest  tone.  "Have  I  not 
just  informed  you  that  she  has  gone,  fled,  eloped? 
Her  chamber  is  empty ;  and  her  bed  has  not  been  oc 
cupied." 

"  Gone  !  "  repeated  the  doctor.  "  And,  when  her 
father  comes  to  demand  his  daughter  of  me,  what  an 
swer  shall  1  make  ?  " 

"  Now,  Heaven  defend  us  from  the  visits  of  the 
dead  and  drowned !  "  cried  Mrs.  Melmoth.  "  This  is 
a  serious  affair,  doctor,  but  not,  I  trust,  sufficient  to 
raise  a  ghost." 

"  Mr.  Langton  is  yet  no  ghost,"  answered  he ; 
"  though  this  event  will  go  near  to  make  him  one.  He 
was  fortunately  prevented,  after  he  had  made  every 
preparation,  from  taking  passage  in  the  vessel  that 
was  lost." 

"And  where  is  he  now?"  she  inquired. 

"  He  is  in  New  England.  Perhaps  he  is  at  this  mo 
ment  on  his  way  to  us,"  replied  her  husband.  "  His 
letter  is  dated  nearly  a  fortnight  back;  and  he  ex 
presses  an  intention  of  being  with  us  in  a  few  days." 

"  Well,  I  thank  Heaven  for  his  safety,"  said  Mrs. 
Melmoth.  "  But  truly  the  poor  gentleman  could  not 
have  chosen  a  better  time  to  be  drowned,  nor  a  worse 
one  to  come  to  life,  than  this.  What  we  shall  do, 
doctor,  I  know  not ;  but  had  you  locked  the  doors,  and 
fastened  the  windows,  as  I  advised,  the  misfortune 
could  not  have  happened." 

"  Why,  the  whole  country  would  have  flouted  us ! " 
answered  the  doctor.  "  Is  there  a  door  in  all  the  Prov 
ince  that  is  barred  or  bolted,  night  or  day  ? 


F ANSI! AWE.  155 

theless,  it  might  have  been  advisable  last  night,  had  it 
occurred  to  me." 

"  And  why  at  that  time  more  than  at  all  times  ?  " 
she  inquired.  "  We  had  surely  no  reason  to  fear  this 
event." 

Dr.  Melmoth  was  silent;  for  his  worldly  wisdom 
was  sufficient  to  deter  him  from  giving  his  lady  the 
opportunity,  which  she  would  not  fail  to  use  to  the 
utmost,  of  laying  the  blame  of  the  elopement  at  his 
door.  He  now  proceeded,  with  a  heavy  heart,  to  El 
len's  chamber,  to  satisfy  himself  with  his  own  eyes  of 
the  state  of  affairs.  It  was  deserted  too  truly;  and 
the  wild-flowers  with  which  it  was  the  maiden's  custom 
daily  to  decorate  her  premises  were  drooping,  as  if  in 
sorrow  for  her  who  had  placed  them  there.  Mrs.  Mel- 
moth,  on  this  second  visit,  discovered  on  the  table  a 
note  addressed  to  her  husband,  and  containing  a  few 
words  of  gratitude  from  Ellen,  but  no  explanation  of 
her  mysterious  flight.  The  doctor  gazed  long  on  the 
tiny  letters,  which  had  evidently  been  traced  with  a 
trembling  hand,  and  blotted  with  many  tears. 

"  There  is  a  mystery  in  this,  —  a  mystery  that  I 
cannot  fathom,"  he  said.  "  And  now  I  would  I  knew 
what  measures  it  would  be  proper  to  take." 

"  Get  you  on  horseback,  Dr.  Melmoth,  and  proceed 
as  speedily  as  may  be  down  the  valley  to  the  town," 
said  the  dame,  the  influence  of  whose  firmer  mind  was 
sometimes,  as  in  the  present  case,  most  beneficially  ex 
erted  over  his  own.  "  You  must  not  spare  for  trouble, 
no,  nor  for  danger.  Now  —  Oh,  if  I  were  a  man  !  "  — 

"  Oh,  that  you  were ! "  murmured  the  doctor,  in  a 
perfectly  inaudible  voice.  "  Well  —  and  when  I  reach 
the  town,  what  then  ?  " 

"  As  I  am  a  Christian  woman,  my  patience  cannot 


156  FANS II A  WE. 

endure  you!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Melmoth.  "Oh,  I  love 
to  see  a  man  with  the  spirit  of  a  man !  but  you  " — 
And  she  turned  away  in  utter  scorn. 

"  But,  dearest  wife,"  remonstrated  the  husband,  who 
was  really  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed,  and  anxious  for 
her  advice,  "  your  worldly  experience  is  greater  than 
mine,  and  I  desire  to  profit  by  it.  What  should  be 
my  next  measure  after  arriving  at  the  town  ?  " 

Mrs.  Melmoth  was  appeased  by  the  submission  with 
which  the  doctor  asked  her  counsel ;  though,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  she  heartily  despised  him  for  need 
ing  it.  She  condescended,  however,  to  instruct  him  in 
the  proper  method  of  pursuing  the  runaway  maiden, 
and  directed  him,  before  his  departure,  to  put  strict 
inquiries  to  Hugh  Crombie  respecting  any  stranger 
who  might  lately  have  visited  his  inn.  That  there 
would  be  wisdom  in  this,  Dr.  Melmoth  had  his  own 
reasons  for  believing ;  and  still,  without  imparting  them 
to  his  lady,  he  proceeded  to  do  as  he  had  been  bid. 

The  veracious  landlord  acknowledged  that  a  stran 
ger  had  spent  a  night  and  day  at  his  inn,  and  was 
missing  that  morning;  but  he  utterly  denied  all  ac 
quaintance  with  his  character,  or  privity  to  his  pur 
poses.  Had  Mrs.  Melmoth,  instead  of  her  husband, 
conducted  the  examination,  the  result  might  have  been 
different.  As  the  case  was,  the  doctor  returned  to  his 
dwelling  but  little  wiser  than  he  went  forth ;  and,  or 
dering  his  steed  to  be  saddled,  he  began  a  journey  of 
which  he  knew  not  what  would  be  the  end. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  intelligence  of  Ellen's  disap 
pearance  circulated  rapidly,  and  soon  sent  forth  hunt 
ers  more  fit  to  follow  the  chase  than  Dr.  Melmoth, 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"There  was  racing  and  chasing  o'er  Caunobie  Lee." 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

Edward  AValcott  awoke  the  next  morning 
from  his  deep  slumber,  his  first  consciousness  was  of 
a  heavy  weight  upon  his  mind,  the  cause  of  which  he 
was  unable  immediately  to  recollect.  One  by  one, 
however,  by  means  of  the  association  of  ideas,  the 
events  of  the  preceding  night  came  back  to  his  mem 
ory;  though  those  of  latest  occurrence  were  dim  as 
dreams.  But  one  circumstance  was  only  too  well  re 
membered,  —  the  discovery  of  Ellen  Langton.  By  a 
strong  effort  he  next  attained  to  an  uncertain  recollec 
tion  of  a  scene  of  madness  and  violence,  followed,  as 
he  at  first  thought,  by  a  duel.  A  little  further  reflec 
tion,  however,  informed  him  that  this  event  was  yet 
among  the  things  of  futurity;  but  he  could  by  no 
means  recall  the  appointed  time  or  place.  As  he  had 
not  the  slightest  intention  (praiseworthy  and  prudent 
as  it  would  unquestionably  have  been)  to  give  up  the 
chance  of  avenging  Ellen's  wrongs  and  his  own,  he 
immediately  arose,  and  began  to  dress,  meaning  to 
iearn  from  Hugh  Crombie  those  particulars  which  his 
own  memory  had  not  retained.  His  chief  apprehen 
sion  was,  that  the  appointed  time  had  already  elapsed ; 
for  the  early  sunbeams  of  a  glorious  morning  were 
now  peeping  into  his  chamber. 

More  than  once,  during  the  progress  of  dressing,  he 
was  inclined  to  believe  that  the   duel   had   actually 


158  FANSHAWE. 

taken  place,  and  been  fatal  to  him,  and  that  he  was 
now  in  those  regions  to  which,  his  conscience  told  him, 
such  an  event  would  be  likely  to  send  him.  This  idea 
resulted  from  his  bodily  sensations,  which  were  in  the 
highest  degree  uncomfortable.  He  was  tormented  by 
a  raging  thirst,  that  seemed  to  have  absorbed  all  the 
moisture  of  his  throat  and  stomach  ;  and,  in  his  pres 
ent  agitation,  a  cup  of  icy  water  would  have  been  his 
first  wish,  had  all  the  treasures  of  earth  and  sea  been 
at  his  command.  His  head,  too,  throbbed  almost  to 
bursting ;  and  the  whirl  of  his  brain  at  every  move 
ment  promised  little  accuracy  in  the  aim  of  his  pistol, 
when  he  should  meet  the  angler.  These  feelings,  to 
gether  with  the  deep  degradation  of  his  mind,  made 
him  resolve  that  110  circumstances  should  again  draw 
him  into  an  excess  of  wine.  In  the  mean  time,  his 
head  was,  perhaps,  still  too  much  confused  to  allow 
him  fully  to  realize  his  unpleasant  situation. 

Before  Edward  was  prepared  to  leave  his  chamber, 
the  door  was  opened  by  one  of  the  college  bed-makers, 
who,  perceiving  that  he  was  nearly  dressed,  entered, 
and  began  to  set  the  apartment  in  order.  There  were 
two  of  these  officials  pertaining  to  Harley  College ; 
each  of  them  being  (and,  for  obvious  reasons,  this  was 
an  indispensable  qualification)  a  model  of  perfect  ugli 
ness  in  her  own  way.  One  was  a  tall,  raw-boned,  huge- 
jointed,  double-fisted  giantess,  admirably  fitted  to  sus 
tain  the  part  of  Glumdalia,  in  the  tragedy  of  "  Tom 
Thumb."  Her  features  were  as  excellent  as  her  form, 
appearing  to  have  been  rough-hewn  with  a  broadaxe, 
and  left  unpolished.  The  other  was  a  short,  squat 
figure,  about  two  thirds  the  height,  and  three  times 
the  circumference,  of  ordinary  females.  Her  hair 
was  gray,  her  complexion  of  a  deep  yellow ;  and  hei 


FANSHAWE.  159 

most  remarkable  feature  was  a  short  snub  nose,  just 
discernible  amid  the  broad  immensity  of  her  face. 
This  latter  lady  was  she  who  now  entered  Edward's 
chamber.  Notwithstanding  her  deficiency  in  personal 
attractions,  she  was  rather  a  favorite  of  the  students, 
being  good-natured,  anxious  for  their  comfort,  and, 
when  duly  encouraged,  very  communicative.  Edward 
perceived,  as  soon  as  she  appeared,  that  she  only 
waited  his  assistance  in  order  to  disburden  herself  of 
some  extraordinary  information  ;  and,  more  from  com 
passion  than  curiosity,  he  began  to  question  her. 

"  "Well,  Doll}',  what  news  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Why,  let  me  see,  —  oh,  yes  !  It  had  almost 
slipped  my  memory,"  replied  the  bed-maker.  "  Poor 
Widow  Butler  died  last  night,  after  her  long  sick 
ness.  Poor  woman !  I  remember  her  forty  years  ago, 
or  so,  —  as  rosy  a  lass  as  you  could  set  eyes  on." 

"  Ah  !  has  she  gone  ?  "  said  Edward,  recollecting 
the  sick  woman  of  the  cottage  which  he  had  entered 
with  Ellen  and  Fanshawe.  u  Was  she  not  out  of  her 
right  mind,  Dolly  ?  " 

"Yes,  this  seven  years,"  she  answered.  "  They  say 
she  came  to  her  senses  a  bit,  when  Dr.  Melmoth  vis 
ited  her  yesterday,  but  was  raving  mad  when  she  died. 
Ah,  that  son  of  hers  I  —  if  he  is  yet  alive.  Well, 
well!" 

"  She  had  a  son,  then  ?  "  inquired  Edward. 

"  Yes,  such  as  he  was.  The  Lord  preserve  me  from 
such  a  one  !  "  said  Dolly.  "  It  was  thought  he  went 
off  with  Hugh  Crombie,  that  keeps  the  tavern  now. 
That  was  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  And  have  they  heard  nothing  of  him  since  ? " 
asked  Edward. 

"  Nothing   good,  —  nothing   good,"  said   the   bed- 


160  FANSHA  WE. 

maker.  "  Stories  did  travel  up  the  valley  now  and 
then  ;  but  for  five  years  there  has  been  no  word  of 
him.  They  say  Merchant  Langton,  Ellen's  father, 
met  him  in  foreign  parts,  and  would  have  made  a  man 
of  him ;  but  there  was  too  much  of  the  wicked  one  in 
him  for  that.  Well,  poor  woman  !  I  wonder  who  '11 
preach  her  funeral  sermon." 

"  Dr.  Melmoth,  probably,"  observed  the  student, 

"  No,  no  !  The  doctor  will  never  finish  his  journey 
in  time.  And  who  knows  but  his  own  funeral  will  be 
the  end  of  it,"  said  Dolly,  with  a  sagacious  shake  of 
her  head. 

"  Dr.  Melmoth  gone  a  journey  !  "  repeated  Edward. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  For  what  purpose  ?  " 

"  For  a  good  purpose  enough,  I  may  say,"  replied 
she.  "  To  search  out  Miss  Ellen,  that  was  run  away 
with  last  night." 

"  In  the  Devil's  name,  woman,  of  what  are  you 
speaking?"  shouted  Edward,  seizing  the  affrighted 
bed-maker  forcibly  by  the  arm. 

Poor  Dolly  had  chosen  this  circuitous  method  of 
communicating  her  intelligence,  because  she  was  well 
aware  that,  if  she  first  told  of  Ellen's  flight,  she  should 
find  no  ear  for  her  account  of  the  Widow  Butler's 
death.  She  had  not  calculated,  however,  that  the 
news  would  produce  so  violent  an  effect  upon  her  au 
ditor  ;  and  her  voice  faltered  as  she  recounted  what 
she  knew  of  the  affair.  She  had  hardly  concluded, 
before  Edward  —  who,  as  she  proceeded,  had  been 
making  hasty  preparations  —  rushed  from  his  cham 
ber,  and  took  the  way  towards  Hugh  Crombie's  inn. 
He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  landlord,  who  had 
already  occupied  his  accustomed  seat,  and  was  smok« 
ing  his  accustomed  pipe,  under  the  elm -tree. 


FANSHAWE.  161 

"  Well,  Master  Walcott,  you  have  come  to  take  a 
stomach-reliever  this  morning,  I  suppose,"  said  Hugh, 
taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "  What  shall  it  be  ? 
—  a  bumper  of  wine  with  an  egg  ?  or  a  glass  of 
smooth,  old,  oily  brandy,  such  as  Dame  Crombie  and 
I  keep  for  our  own  drinking  ?  Come,  that  will  do  it, 
I  know." 

*4  No,  no !  neither,"  replied  Edward,  shuddering  in 
voluntarily  at  the  bare  mention  of  wine  and  strong 
drink.  "  You  know  well,  Hugh  Crombie,  the  errand 
on  which  I  come." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  do,"  said  the  landlord.  "  You 
come  to  order  me  to  saddle  my  best  horse.  You  are 
for  a  ride,  this  fine  morning." 

"  True  ;  and  I  must  learn  of  you  in  what  direction 
to  turn  my  horse's  head,"  replied  Edward  Walcott. 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  Hugh,  nodding  and  smil 
ing.  "  And  now,  Master  Edward,  I  really  have  taken 
a  strong  liking  to  you  ;  and,  if  you  please  to  hearken 
to  it,  you  shall  have  some  of  niy  best  advice." 

"  Speak,"  said  the  young  man,  expecting  to  be  told 
in  what  direction  to  pursue  the  chase. 

"  I  advise  you,  then,"  continued  Hugh  Crombie,  in 
a  tone  in  which  some  real  feeling  mingled  with  as 
sumed  carelessness,  —  "  I  advise  you  to  forget  that 
you  have  ever  known  this  girl,  that  she  has  ever  ex 
isted  ;  for  she  is  as  much  lost  to  you  as  if  she  never 
had  been  born,  or  as  if  the  grave  had  covered  her. 
Come,  come,  man,  toss  off  a  quart  of  my  old  wine, 
and  kept  up  a  merry  heart.  This  has  been  my  way 
in  many  a  heavier  sorrow  than  ever  you  have  felt ; 
and  you  see  I  am  alive  and  merry  yet."  But  Hugh's 
merriment  had  failed  him  just  as  he  was  making  his 

VOL.  XI.  11 


162  FANSHAWE. 

boast  of  it ;  for  Edward  saw  a  tear  in  the  corner  of 
his  eye. 

"  Forget  her  ?  Never,  never !  "  said  the  student, 
while  his  heart  sank  within  him  at  the  hopelessness  of 
pursuit  which  Hugh's  words  implied.  "  I  will  follow 
her  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

"  Then  so  much  the  worse  for  you  and  for  my  poor 
nag,  on  whose  back  you  shall  be  in  three  minutes," 
rejoined  the  landlord.  "  I  have  spoken  to  you  as  I 
would  to  my  own  son,  if  I  had  such  an  incumbrance. 
—  Here,  you  ragamuffin ;  saddle  the  gray,  and  lead 
him  round  to  the  door." 

"  The  gray  ?  I  will  ride  the  black,"  said  Edward. 
"  I  know  your  best  horse  as  well  as  you  do  yourself, 
Hugh." 

"There  is  no  black  horse  in  my  stable.  I  have 
parted  with  him  to  an  old  comrade  of  mine,"  answered 
the  landlord,  with  a  wink  of  acknowledgment  to  what 
he  saw  were  Edward's  suspicions.  "  The  gray  is  a 
stout  nag,  and  will  carry  you  a  round  pace,  though  not 
so  fast  as  to  bring  you  up  with  them  you  seek.  I  re 
served  him  for  you,  and  put  Mr.  Fanshawe  off  with 
the  old  white,  on  which  I  travelled  hitherward  a  year 
or  two  since." 

"  Fanshawe  !  Has  he,  then,  the  start  of  me  ?  " 
asked  Edward. 

"  He  rode  off  about  twenty  minutes  ago,"  replied 
Hugh  ;  "  but  you  will  overtake  him  within  ten  miles, 
at  farthest.  But,  if  mortal  man  could  recover  the 
girl,  that  fellow  would  do  it,  even  if  he  had  no  better 
nag  than  a  broomstick,  like  the  witches  of  old  times." 

"  Did  he  obtain  any  information  from  you  as  to  the 
course  ?  "  inquired  the  student. 

"  I  could  give  him  only  this  much,"  said  Hugh, 


FANSHAWE.  163 

pointing  down  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  town. 
"  My  old  comrade  trusts  no  man  further  than  is  need 
ful,  and  I  ask  no  unnecessary  questions." 

The  hostler  now  led  up  to  the  door  the  horse  which 
Edward  was  to  ride.  The  young  man  mounted  with 
all  expedition ;  but,  as  he  was  about  to  apply  the 
spurs,  his  thirst,  which  the  bed -maker's  intelligence 
had  caused  him  to  forget,  returned  most  powerfully 
upon  him. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Hugh,  a  mug  of  your  sharp 
est  cider ;  and  let  it  be  a  large  one !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  My  tongue  rattles  in  my  mouth  like  " — 

"  Like  the  bones  in  a  dice-box,"  said  the  landlord, 
finishing  the  comparison,  and  hastening  to  obey  Ed 
ward's  directions.  Indeed,  he  rather  exceeded  them, 
by  mingling  with  the  juice  of  the  apple  a  gill  of  his 
old  brandy,  which  his  own  experience  told  him  woidd 
at  that  time  have  a  most  desirable  effect  upon  the 
young  man's  internal  system. 

"  It  is  powerful  stuff,  mine  host ;  and  I  feel  like  a 
new  man  already,"  observed  Edward,  after  draining 
the  mug  to  the  bottom. 

"  He  is  a  fine  lad,  and  sits  his  horse  most  gal 
lantly,"  said  Hugh  Cronibie  to  himself  as  the  student 
rode  off.  "  I  heartily  wish  him  success.  I  wish  to 
Heaven  my  conscience  had  suffered  me  to  betray  the 
plot  before  it  was  too  late.  "Well,  well,  a  man  must 
keep  his  mite  of  honesty." 

The  morning  was  now  one  of  the  most  bright  and 
glorious  that  ever  shone  for  mortals ;  and.  under  other 
circumstances,  Edward's  bosom  would  have  been  as 
light,  and  his  spirit  woidd  have  sung  as  cheerfully,  as 
one  of  the  many  birds  that  warbled  around  him.  The 
raindrops  of  the  preceding  night  hung  like  glittering 


164  FANSHAWE. 

diamonds  on  every  leaf  of  every  tree,  shaken,  and  ren* 
dered  more  brilliant,  by  occasional  sighs  of  wind,  that 
removed  from  the  traveller  the  superfluous  heat  of  an 
unclouded  sun.  In  spite  of  the  adventure,  so  mys 
terious  and  vexatious,  in  which  he  was  engaged,  Ed 
ward's  elastic  spirit  (assisted,  perhaps,  by  the  brandy 
he  had  unwittingly  swallowed)  rose  higher  as  he  rode 
on ;  and  he  soon  found  himself  endeavoring  to  accom 
modate  the  tune  of  one  of  Hugh  Crombie's  ballads  to 
the  motion  of  the  horse.  Nor  did  this  reviving  cheer, 
fulness  argue  anything  against  his  unwavering  faith, 
and  pure  and  fervent  love  for  Ellen  Langton.  A  sor 
rowful  and  repining  disposition  is  not  the  necessary 
accompaniment  of  a  "  leal  and  loving  heart "  ;  and 
Edward's  spirits  were  cheered,  not  by  forgetfulness, 
but  by  hope,  which  would  not  permit  him  to  doubt  of 
the  ultimate  success  of  his  pursuit.  The  uncertainty 
itself,  and  the  probable  danger  of  the  expedition,  were 
not  without  their  charm  to  a  youthful  and  adventurous 
spirit.  In  fact,  Edward  would  not  have  been  alto 
gether  satisfied  to  recover  the  errant  damsel,  without 
first  doing  battle  in  her  behalf. 

He  had  proceeded  but  a  few  miles  before  he  came 
in  sight  of  Fanshawe,  who  had  been  accommodated  by 
the  landlord  with  a  horse  much  inferior  to  his  own. 
The  speed  to  which  he  had  been  put  had  almost  ex 
hausted  the  poor  animal,  whose  best  pace  was  now  but 
little  beyond  a  walk.  Edward  drew  his  bridle  as  he 
came  up  with  Fanshawe. 

"  I  have  been  anxious  to  apologize,"  he  said  to  him, 
"  for  the  hasty  and  unjust  expressions  of  which  I  made 
use  last  evening.  May  I  hope  that,  in  consideration 
of  my  mental  distraction  and  the  causes  of  it,  you  wiU 
forget  what  has  passed  ?  " 


FANSHAWE.  165 

"I  had  already  forgotten  it,"  replied  Fanshawe, 
freely  offering  his  hand.  4*  I  saw  your  disturbed  state 
of  feeling,  and  it  would  have  been  unjust  both  to  you 
and  to  myself  to  remember  the  errors  it  occasioned.'' 

"  A  wild  expedition  this,"  observed  Edward,  after 
shaking  warmly  the  offered  hand.  "  Unless  we  obtain 
some  further  information  at  the  town,  we  shall  hardly 
know  which  way  to  continue  the  pursuit." 

"  We  can  scarcely  fail,  I  think,  of  lighting  upon 
some  trace  of  them,"  said  Fanshawe.  '•  Their  flight 
must  have  commenced  after  the  storm  subsided,  which 
would  give  them  but  a  few  hours  the  start  of  us. 
May  I  beg,"  he  continued,  noticing  the  superior  con 
dition  of  his  rival's  horse,  "  that  you  will  not  attempt 
to  accommodate  your  pace  to  mine  ?  " 

Edward  bowed,  and  rode  on,  wondering  at  the 
change  which  a  few  months  had  wrought  in  Faii- 
shawe's  character.  On  this  occasion,  especially,  the 
energy  of  his  mind  had  communicated  itself  to  his 
frame.  The  color  was  strong  and  high  in  his  cheek  ; 
and  his  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a  gallant  and 
manly  youth,  whom  a  lady  might  love,  or  a  foe  might 
fear.  Edward  had  not  been  so  slow  as  his  mistress  in 
discovering  the  student's  affection  ;  and  he  could  not 
but  acknowledge  in  his  heart  that  he  was  a  rival  not 
to  be  despised,  and  might  yet  be  a  successful  one.  if, 
by  his  means,  Ellen  Langton  were  restored  to  her 
friends.  This  consideration  caused  him  to  spur  for 
ward  with  increased  ardor  ;  but  all  his  speed  could 
not  divest  him  of  the  idea  that  Fanshawe  would  finally 
overtake  him,  and  attain  the  object  of  their  mutual 
pursuit.  There  was  certainly  no  apparent  ground  for 
this  imagination :  for  every  step  of  his  horse  increased 
the  advantage  which  Edward  had  gained,  and  he  soon 
lost  sight  of  his  rival. 


166  FANSHAWE. 

Shortly  after  overtaking  Fanshawe,  the  young  man 
passed  the  lonely  cottage  formerly  the  residence  of  the 
Widow  Butler,  who  now  lay  dead  within.  He  was  at 
first  inclined  to  alight,  and  make  inquiries  respecting 
the  fugitives;  for  he  observed  through  the  windows 
the  faces  of  several  persons,  whom  curiosity,  or  some 
better  feeling,  had  led  to  the  house  of  mourning.  Rec 
ollecting,  however,  that  this  portion  of  the  road  must 
have  been  passed  by  the  angler  and  Ellen  at  too  early 
an  hour  to  attract  notice,  he  forbore  to  waste  time  by 
a  fruitless  delay. 

Edward  proceeded  on  his  journey,  meeting  with  no 
other  noticeable  event,  till,  arriving  at  the  summit  of  a 
hill,  he  beheld,  a  few  hundred  yards  before  him,  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Melmoth.  The  worthy  president  was  toiling 
onward  at  a  rate  unexampled  in  the  history  either  of 
himself  or  his  steed  ;  the  excellence  of  the  latter  con 
sisting  in  sure-footedness  rather  than  rapidity.  The 
rider  looked  round,  seemingly  in  some  apprehension 
at  the  sound  of  hoof -tramps  behind  him,  but  was  un 
able  to  conceal  his  satisfaction  on  recognizing  Edward 
Walcott. 

In  the  whole  course  of  his  life,  Dr.  Melmoth  had 
never  been  placed  in  circumstances  so  embarrassing  as 
the  present.  He  was  altogether  a  child  in  the  ways  of 
the  world,  having  spent  his  youth  and  early  manhood 
in  abstracted  study,  and  his  maturity  in  the  solitude 
of  these  hills.  The  expedition,  therefore,  on  which 
fate  had  now  thrust  him,  was  an  entire  deviation  from 
the  quiet  pathway  of  all  his  former  years ;  and  he  felt 
like  one  who  sets  forth  over  the  broad  ocean  without 
chart  or  compass.  The  affair  would  undoubtedly  have 
been  perplexing  to  a  man  of  far  more  experience  than 
he ;  but  the  doctor  pictured  to  himself  a  thousan^  dif- 


FANSHAWE.  167 

ficulties  and  dangers,  which,  except  in  his  imagination, 
had  no  existence.  The  perturbation  of  his  spirit  had 
compelled  him,  more  than  once  since  his  departure,  to 
regret  that  he  had  not  invited  Mrs.  Melmoth  to  a 
share  in  the  adventure ;  this  being  an  occasion  where 
her  firmness,  decision,  and  confident  sagacity  —  which 
made  her  a  sort  of  domestic  hedgehog  —  would  have 
been  peculiarly  appropriate.  In  the  absence  of  such 
a  counsellor,  even  Edward  Walcott  —  young  as  he 
was,  and  indiscreet  as  the  doctor  thought  him  —  was 
a  substitute  not  to  be  despised  ;  and  it  was  singular 
and  rather  ludicrous  to  observe  how  the  gray-haired 
man  unconsciously  became  as  a  child  to  the  beardless 
youth.  He  addressed  Edward  with  an  assumption  of 
dignity,  through  which  his  pleasure  at  the  meeting 
was  very  obvious. 

"  Young  gentleman,  this  is  not  well,''  he  said.  "By 
what  authority  have  you  absented  yourself  from  the 
walls  of  Alma  Mater  during  term-time  ?  " 

"  I  conceived  that  it  was  unnecessary  to  ask  leave 
at  such  a  conjuncture,  and  when  the  head  of  the  insti 
tution  was  himself  in  the  saddle,"  replied  Edward. 

"  It  was  a  fault,  it  was  a  fault,"  said  Dr.  Melmoth, 
shaking  his  head  ;  "  but,  in  consideration  of  the  mo 
tive,  I  may  pass  it  over.  And  now,  my  dear  Edward, 
I  advise  that  we  continue  our  journey  together,  as 
your  youth  and  inexperience  will  stand  in  need  of  the 
wisdom  of  niy  gray  head.  Xay,  I  pray  you  lay  not 
the  lash  to  your  steed.  You  have  ridden  fast  and  far  ; 
and  a  slower  pace  is  requisite  for  a  season." 

And,  in  order  to  keep  up  with  his  young  compan 
ion,  the  doctor  smote  his  own  gray  nag  :  which  un 
happy  beast,  wondering  what  strange  concatenation  of 
events  had  procured  him  such  treatment,  endeavored 


168  FANSHAWE. 

to  obey  his  master's  wishes.  Edward  had  sufficient 
compassion  for  Dr.  Melmoth  (especially  as  his  own 
horse  now  exhibited  signs  of  weariness)  to  moderate 
his  pace  to  one  attainable  by  the  former. 

"  Alas,  youth !  these  are  strange  times,"  observed 
the  president,  "  when  a  doctor  of  divinity  and  an  un 
der -graduate  set  forth,  like  a  knight-errant  and  his 
squire,  in  search  of  a  stray  damsel.  Methinks  I  am 
an  epitome  of  the  church  militant,  ov  a  new  species  of 
polemical  divinity.  Pray  Heaven,  however,  there  be 
no  encounter  in  store  for  us ;  for  I  utterly  forgot  to 
provide  myself  with  weapons." 

"  I  took  some  thought  for  that  matter,  reverend 
knight,"  replied  Edward,  whose  imagination  was 
highly  tickled  by  Dr.  Melmoth' s  chivalrous  compar 
ison. 

"  Ay,  I  see  that  you  have  girded  on  a  sword,"  said 
the  divine.  "  But  wherewith  shall  I  defend  myself, 
my  hand  being  empty,  except  of  this  golden  headed 
staff,  the  gift  of  Mr.  Langton  ?  " 

"  One  of  these,  if  you  will  accept  it,"  answered  Ed 
ward,  exhibiting  a  brace  of  pistols,  "  will  serve  to  be 
gin  the  conflict,  before  you  join  the  battle  hand  to 
hand." 

"  Nay,  I  shall  find  little  safety  in  meddling  with 
that  deadly  instrument,  since  I  know  not  accurately 
from  which  end  proceeds  the  bullet,"  said  Dr.  Mel 
moth.  "  But  were  it  not  better,  seeing  we  are  so  well 
provided  with  artillery,  to  betake  ourselves,  in  the 
event  of  an  encounter,  to  some  stone-wall  or  other 
place  of  strength?" 

"  If  I  may  presume  to  advise,"  said  the  squire, 
"you,  as  being  most  valiant  and  experienced,  should 
ride  forward,  lance  in  hand  (your  long  staff  serving 
for  a  lance),  while  T  annoy  the  enemy  from  afar." 


FANS  HA  WE.  169 

"  Like  Teucer  behind  the  shield  of  Ajax,"  inter- 
rupted  Dr.  Melinoth,  "or  David  with  his  stone  and 
sling.  No,  no,  young  man !  I  have  left  unfinished  in 
my  study  a  learned  treatise,  important  not  only  to  the 
present  age,  but  to  posterity,  for  whose  sakes  I  must 
take  heed  to  my  safety.  — But,  lo !  who  ride  yonder? " 
he  exclaimed,  in  manifest  alarm,  pointing  to  some 
horsemen  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill  at  a  short  distance 
before  them. 

"  Fear  not,  gallant  leader,"  said  Edward  AValcott, 
who  had  already  discovered  the  objects  of  the  doctor's 
terror.  "  They  are  men  of  peace,  as  we  shall  shortly 
see.  The  foremost  is  somewhere  near  your  own  years, 
and  rides  like  a  grave,  substantial  citizen,  —  though 
what  he  does  here,  I  know  not.  Behind  come  two 
servants,  men  likewise  of  sober  age  and  pacific  ap 
pearance." 

"  Truly  your  eyes  are  better  than  mine  own.  Of  a 
verity,  you  are  in  the  right,"  acquiesced  Dr.  Melmoth, 
recovering  his  usual  quantum  of  intrepidity.  "  We 
will  ride  forward  courageously,  as  those  who,  in  a  just 
cause,  fear  neither  death  nor  bonds." 

The  reverend  knight-errant  and  his  squire,  at  the 
time  of  discovering  the  three  horsemen,  were  within 
a  very  short  distance  of  the  town,  which  was,  however, 
concealed  from  their  view  by  the  hill  that  the  stran 
gers  were  descending.  The  road  from  Harley  Col 
lege,  through  almost  its  whole  extent,  had  been  rough 
and  wild,  and  the  country  thin  of  population  ;  but 
now,  standing  frequent,  amid  fertile  fields  on  each 
side  of  the  way,  were  neat  little  cottages,  from  which 
groups  of  white -headed  children  rushed  forth  to  gaze 
upon  the  travellers.  The  three  strangers,  as  well  as 
the  doctor  and  Edward,  were  surrounded,  as  they  ap 


170  FANSHAWE. 

preached  each  other,  by  a  crowd  of  this  kind,  plying 
their  little  bare  legs  most  pertinaciously  in  order  to 
keep  pace  with  the  horses. 

As  Edward  gained  a  nearer  view  of  the  foremost 
rider,  his  grave  aspect  and  stately  demeanor  struck 
him  with  involuntary  respect.  There  were  deep  lines 
of  thought  across  his  brow  ;  and  his  calm  yet  bright 
gray  eye  betokened  a  steadfast  soul.  There  was  also 
an  air  of  conscious  importance,  even  in  the  manner  in 
which  the  stranger  sat  his  horse,  which  a  man's  good 
opinion  of  himself,  unassisted  by  the  concurrence  of 
the  world  in  general,  seldom  bestows.  The  two  ser 
vants  rode  at  a  respectable  distance  in  the  rear ;  and 
the  heavy  portmanteaus  at  their  backs  intimated  that 
the  party  had  journeyed  from  afar.  Dr.  Melmoth  en 
deavored  to  assume  the  dignity  that  became  him  as 
the  head  of  Harley  College  ;  and  with  a  gentle  stroke 
of  his  staff  upon  his  wearied  steed  and  a  grave  nod 
to  the  principal  stranger,  was  about  to  commence  the 
ascent  of  the  hill  at  the  foot  of  which  they  were.  The 
gentleman,  however,  made  a  halt. 

"  Dr.  Melmoth,  am  I  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  you  ?  " 
he  exclaimed  in  accents  expressive  of  as  much  surprise 
and  pleasure  as  were  consistent  with  his  staid  de 
meanor.  "  Have  you,  then,  forgotten  your  old  friend?  " 

"  Mr.  Langton  !  Can  it  be  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  after 
looking  him  in  the  face  a  moment.  "  Yes,  it  is  my 
old  friend  indeed :  welcome,  welcome !  though  you 
come  at  an  unfortunate  time." 

"  What  say  you?  How  is  my  child?  Ellen,  I  trust, 
is  well  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Langton,  a  father's  anxiety  over 
coming  the  coldness  and  reserve  that  were  natural  to 
him,  or  that  long  habit  had  made  a  second  nature. 

"She  is  well  in  health.     She  was  so,  at  least, ''last 


FANSHAWE.  171 

night,"  replied  Dr.  Melmoth  unable  to  meet  the  eye 
of  his  friend.  u  But  —  but  I  have  been  a  careless 
shepherd ;  and  the  lamb  has  strayed  from  the  fold 
while  I  slept." 

Edward  AValcott,  who  was  a  deeply  interested  ob 
server  of  this  scene,  had  anticipated  that  a  burst  of 
passionate  grief  would  follow  the  disclosure.  He  was, 
however,  altogether  mistaken.  There  was  a  momen 
tary  convulsion  of  Mr.  Lang-ton's  strong  features,  as 
quick  to  come  and  go  as  a  flash  of  lightning;  and 
then  his  countenance  wras  as  composed  —  though,  per 
haps,  a  little  sterner  —  as  before.  He  seemed  about 
to  inquire  into  the  particulars  of  what  so  nearly  con 
cerned  him,  but  changed  his  purpose  on  observing  the 
crowd  of  children,  who,  with  one  or  two  of  their  pa 
rents,  were  endeavoring  to  catch  the  words  that  passed 
between  the  doctor  and  himself. 

"  I  will  turn  back  with  you  to  the  village,"  he  said 
in  a  steady  voice ;  "  and  at  your  leisure  I  shall  desire 
to  hear  the  particulars  of  this  unfortunate  affair." 

He  wheeled  his  horse  accordingly,  and,  side  by  side 
with  Dr.  Melmoth,  began  to  ascend  the  hill.  On  reach 
ing  the  summit,  the  little  country  town  lay  before  them, 
presenting  a  cheerful  and  busy  spectacle.  It  consisted 
of  one  long,  regidar  street,  extending  parallel  to,  and 
at  a  short  distance  from,  the  river ;  which  here,  en 
larged  by  a  junction  with  another  stream,  became  nav 
igable,  not  indeed  for  vessels  of  burden,  but  for  rafts 
of  lumber  and  boats  of  considerable  size.  The  houses, 
with  peaked  roofs  and  jutting  stories,  stood  at  wide 
intervals  along  the  street ;  and  the  commercial  char 
acter  of  the  place  was  manifested  by  the  shop  door  and 
windows  that  occupied  the  front  of  almost  every  dwell 
ing.  One  or  two  mansions,  however,  surrounded  by 


172  FANSHAWE. 

trees,  and  standing  back  at  a  haughty  distance  from 
the  road,  were  evidently  the  abodes  of  the  aristocracy 
of  the  village.  It  was  not  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
owners  of  these  —  self-important  personages,  with  canes 
and  well  -  powdered  periwigs  —  among  the  crowd  of 
meaner  men  who  bestowed  their  attention  upon  Dr. 
Melmoth  and  his  friend  as  they  rode  by.  The  town 
being  the  nearest  mart  of  a  large  extent  of  back  coun 
try,  there  are  many  rough  farmers  and  woodsmen,  to 
whom  the  cavalcade  was  an  object  of  curiosity  and 
admiration.  The  former  feeling,  indeed,  was  general 
throughout  the  village.  The  shop-keepers  left  their 
customers,  and  looked  forth  from  the  doors;  the  fe 
male  portion  of  the  community  thrust  their  heads  from 
the  windows ;  and  the  people  in  the  street  formed  a 
lane  through  which,  with  all  eyes  concentrated  upon 
them,  the  party  rode  onward  to  the  tavern.  The  gen 
eral  aptitude  that  pervades  the  populace  of  a  small 
country  town  to  meddle  with  affairs  not  legitimately 
concerning  them  was  increased,  on  this  occasion,  by  the 
sudden  return  of  Mr.  Langton  after  passing  through 
the  village.  Many  conjectures  were  afloat  respecting 
the  cause  of  this  retrograde  movement;  and,  by  de 
grees,  something  like  the  truth,  though  much  distorted, 
spread  generally  among  the  crowd,  communicated,  prob 
ably,  from  Mr.  Langton' s  servants.  Edward  Walcott, 
incensed  at  the  uncourteous  curiosity  of  which  he,  as 
well  as  his  companions,  was  the  object,  felt  a  frequent 
impulse  (though,  fortunately  for  himself,  resisted)  to 
make  use  of  his  riding-switch  in  clearing  a  passage. 

On  arriving  at  the  tavern,  Dr.  Melmoth  recounted 
to  his  friend  the  little  he  knew  beyond  the  bare  fact 
of  Ellen's  disappearance.  Had  Edward  Walcott  been 
called  to  their  conference,  he  might,  by  disclosing , the 


FAJV&hA  WE.  173 

adventure  of  the  angler,  have  thrown  a  portion  of 
light  upon  the  affair ;  but,  since  his  first  introduction, 
the  cold  and  stately  merchant  had  honored  him  with 
no  sort  of  notice. 

Edward,  on  his  part,  was  not  well  pleased  at  the 
sudden  appearance  of  Ellen's  father,  and  was  little 
inclined  to  cooperate  in  any  measures  that  he  might 
adopt  for  her  recovery.  It  was  his  wish  to  pursue  the 
chase  on  his  own  responsibility,  and  as  his  own  wis 
dom  dictated :  he  chose  to  be  an  independent  ally, 
rather  than  a  subordinate  assistant.  But,  as  a  step 
preliminary  to  his  proceedings  of  every  other  kind,  he 
found  it  absolutely  necessary,  having  journeyed  far, 
and  fasting,  to  call  upon  the  landlord  for  a  supply  of 
food.  The  viands  that  were  set  before  him  were 
homely  but  abundant ;  nor  were  Edward's  griefs  and 
perplexities  so  absorbing  as  to  overcome  the  appetite 
of  youth  and  health. 

Dr.  Melmoth  and  Mr.  Langton,  after  a  short  private 
conversation,  had  summoned  the  landlord,  in  the  hope 
of  obtaining  some  clew  to  the  development  of  the 
mystery.  But  no  young  lady,  nor  any  stranger  an 
swering  to  the  description  the  doctor  had  received 
from  Hugh  Cronibie  (which  was  indeed  a  false  one), 
had  been  seen  to  pass  through  the  village  since  day 
break.  Here,  therefore,  the  friends  were  entirely  at 
a  loss  in  what  direction  to  continue  the  pursuit.  The 
village  was  the  focus  of  several  roads,  diverging  to 
widely  distant  portions  of  the  country  ;  and  which  of 
these  the  fugitives  had  taken,  it  was  impossible  to  de 
termine.  One  point,  however,  might  be  considered 
certain,  —  that  the  village  was  the  first  stage  of  their 
flight ;  for  it  commanded  the  only  outlet  from  the 
valley,  except  a  rugged  path  among  the  hills,  utterly 


174  FANSHAWE. 

impassable  by  horse.  In  this  dilemma,  expresses  were 
sent  by  each  of  the  different  roads ;  and  poor  Ellen's 
imprudence  —  the  tale  nowise  decreasing  as  it  rolled 
along  —  became  known  to  a  wide  extent  of  country. 
Having  thus  done  everything  in  his  power  to  recover 
his  daughter,  the  merchant  exhibited  a,  composure 
which  Dr.  Melmoth  admired,  but  could  not  equal. 
His  own  mind,  however,  was  in  a  far  more  comfort 
able  state  than  when  the  responsibility  of  the  pursuit 
had  rested  upon  himself. 

Edward  Walcott,  in  the  mean  time,  had  employed 
but  a  very  few  moments  in  satisfying  his  hunger ; 
after  which  his  active  intellect  alternately  formed  and 
relinquished  a  thousand  plans  for  the  recovery  of 
Ellen.  Fanshawe's  observation,  that  her  flight  must 
have  commenced  after  the  subsiding  of  the  storm,  re 
curred  to  him.  On  inquiry,  he  was  informed  that  the 
violence  of  the  rain  had  continued,  with  a  few  momen 
tary  intermissions,  till  near  daylight.  The  fugitives 
must,  therefore,  have  passed  through  the  village  long 
after  its  inhabitants  were  abroad ;  and  how,  without 
the  gift  of  invisibility,  they  had  contrived  to  elude 
notice,  Edward  could  not  conceive. 

"  Fifty  years  ago,"  thought  Edward,  "  my  sweet 
Ellen  would  have  been  deemed  a  witch  for  this  track 
less  journey.  Truly,  I  could  wish  I  were  a  wizard, 
that  I  might  bestride  a  broomstick,  and  follow  her." 

While  the  young  man,  involved  in  these  perplexing 
thoughts,  looked  forth  from  the  open  window  of  the 
apartment,  his  attention  was  drawn  to  an  individual, 
evidently  of  a  different,  though  not  of  a  higher,  class 
than  the  countrymen  among  whom  he  stood.  Edward 
now  recollected  that  he  had  noticed  his  rough  dark 
face  among  the  most  earnest  of  those  who  had  watched 


FANSHA  WE.  175 

the  arrival  of  the  party.  He  had  then  taken  him  for 
one  of  the  boatmen,  of  whom  there  were  many  in  the 
village,  and  who  had  much  of  a  sailor-like  dress  and 
appearance.  A  second  and  more  attentive  observa 
tion,  however,  convinced  Edward  that  this  man's  life 
had  not  been  spent  upon  fresh  water ;  and,  had  any 
stronger  evidence  than  the  nameless  marks  which  the 
ocean  impresses  upon  its  sons  been  necessary,  it  would 
have  been  found  in  his  mode  of  locomotion.  While 
Edward  was  observing  him,  he  beat  slowly  up  to  one 
of  Mr.  Langton's  servants  who  was  standing  near  the 
door  of  the  inn.  He  seemed  to  question  the  man  with 
affected  carelessness ;  but  his  countenance  was  dark 
and  perplexed  when  he  turned  to  mingle  again  with 
the  crowd.  Edward  lost  no  time  in  ascertaining  froir, 
the  servant  the  nature  of  his  inquiries.  They  had  re 
lated  to  the  elopement  of  Mr.  Langton's  daughter 
which  was,  indeed,  the  prevailing,  if  not  the  sole,  sub 
ject  of  conversation  in  the  village. 

The  grounds  for  supposing  that  this  man  was  in  anj 
way  connected  with  the  angler  were,  perhaps,  very 
slight ;  yet,  in  the  perplexity  of  the  whole  affair,  they 
induced  Edward  to  resolve  to  get  at  the  heart  of  his 
mystery.  To  attain  this  end,  he  took  the  most  direct 
method,  —  by  applying  to  the  man  himself. 

He  had  now  retired  apart  from  the  throng  and  bus 
tle  of  the  village,  and  was  seated  upon  a  condemned 
boat,  that  was  drawn  up  to  rot  upon  the  banks  of  the 
river.  His  arms  were  folded,  and  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  brows.  The  lower  part  of  his  face,  which  alone 
was  visible,  evinced  gloom  and  depression,  as  did  also 
the  deep  sighs,  which,  because  he  thought  no  one  was 
near  him,  he  did  not  attempt  to  restrain. 

"  Friend,  I  must   speak  with  you,"  said   Edward 


176  FAJVSUA  WE. 

Walcott,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  after  con 
templating  the  man  a  moment,  himself  unseen. 

He  started  at  once  from  his  abstraction  and  his  seat, 
apparently  expecting  violence,  and  prepared  to  resist 
it ;  but,  perceiving  the  youthful  and  solitary  intruder 
upon  his  privacy,  he  composed  his  features  with  much 
quickness. 

"  What  would  you  with  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  They  tarry  long,  —  or  you  have  kept  a  careless 
watch,"  said  Edward,  speaking  at  a  venture. 

For  a  moment,  there  seemed  a  probability  of  obtain- 
ing  such  a  reply  to  this  observation  as  the  youth  had 
intended  to  elicit.  If  any  trust  could  be  put  in  the 
language  of  the  stranger's  countenance,  a  set  of  words 
different  from  those  to  which  he  subsequently  gavo 
utterance  had  risen  to  his  lips.  But  he  seemed  natu 
rally  slow  of  speech ;  and  this  defect  was  now,  as  is 
frequently  the  case,  advantageous  in  giving  him  space 
for  reflection. 

"  Look  you,  youngster  :  crack  no  jokes  on  me,"  ho 
at  length  said,  contemptuously.  "  Away !  back  whence 
you  came,  or  "-  And  he  slightly  waved  a  small  rat 
tan  that  he  held  in  his  right  hand. 

Edward's  eyes  sparkled,  and  his  color  rose.  "  You 
must  change  this  tone,  fellow,  and  that  speedily,"  ho 
observed.  tip  I  order  you  to  lower  your  hand,  and  an 
swer  the  questions  that  I  shall  put  to  you." 

The  man  gazed  dubiously  at  him,  but  finally  adopted 
a  more  conciliatory  mode  of  speech. 

"  Well,  master  ;  and  what  is  your  business  with 
me  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  am  a  boatman  out  of  employ. 
Any  commands  in  my  line  ?  " 

"  Pshaw !  I  know  you,  my  good  friend,  and  you 
cannot  deceive  me,"  replied  Edward  Walcott.  "  W^ 


FANSHAWE.  177 

are  private  here/'  he  continued,  looking  around.  "  I 
have  no  desire  or  intention  to  do  you  harm  ;  and,  if 
you  act  according  to  my  directions,  you  shall  have  no 
cause  to  repent  it." 

"  And  what  if  I  refuse  to  put  myself  under  your  or- 
ders  ?  "  inquired  the  man.  "  You  are  but  a  young 
captain  for  such  an  old  hulk  as  mine." 

"  The  ill  consequences  of  a  refusal  would  all  be  on 
your  own  side,"  replied  Edward.  "I  shall,  in  that 
case,  deliver  you  up  to  justice:  if  I  have  not  the 
means  of  capturing  \ou  myself,"  he  continued,  observ- 
ino-  the  seaman's  eve  to  wander  rather  scornfully  over 

o  ^ 

his  youthful  and  slender  figure,  "  there  are  hundreds 
within  call  whom  it  will  be  in  vain  to  resist.  Besides, 
it  requires  little  strength  to  use  this,"  he  added,  laying 
his  hand  on  a  pistol. 

"If  that  were  all,  I  could  suit  you  there,  my  lad,'' 
muttered  the  stranger.  He  continued  aloud,  "  Well, 
what  is  your  will  with  me  ?  D d  ungenteel  treat 
ment  this !  But  put  your  questions  ;  and,  to  oblige 
you,  I  may  answer  them,  —  if  so  be  that  I  know  any 
thing  of  the  matter." 

"You  will  do  wisely,"  observed  the  young  man. 
"And  now  to  business.  What  reason  have  you  to 
suppose  that  the  persons  for  whom  you  watch  are  not 
already  beyond  the  village  ?  " 

The  seaman  paused  long  before  he  answered,  and 
gazed  earnestly  at  Edward,  apparently  endeavoring 
to  ascertain  from  his  countenance  the  amount  of  his 
knowledge.  This  he  probably  overrated,  but,  never 
theless,  hazarded  a  falsehood. 

"  I  doubt  not  they  passed  before  midnight,"  he  said. 
"  I  warrant  you  they  are  many  a  league  towards  the 
sea-coast,  ere  this." 

VOL.   XI.  12 


178  FANSHA  WE. 

"  You  have  kept  watch,  then,  since  midnight  ?  " 
asked  Edward. 

"  Ay,  that  have  I !  And  a  dark  and  rough  one  it 
was,"  answered  the  stranger. 

"  And  you  are  certain  that,  if  they  passed  at  all,  it 
must  have  been  before  that  hour  ?  " 

"  I  kept  my  walk  across  the  road  till  the  village  was 
all  astir,"  said  the  seaman.  "  They  could  not  have 
missed  me.  So,  you  see,  your  best  way  is  to  give 
chase ;  for  they  have  a  long  start  of  you,  and  you 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

"  Your  information  is  sufficient,  my  good  friend," 
said  Edward,  with  a  smile.  "  I  have  reason  to  know 
that  they  did  not  commence  their  flight  before  mid 
night.  You  have  made  it  evident  that  they  have  not 
passed  since  :  ergo,  they  have  not  passed  at  all,  —  an 
indisputable  syllogism.  And  now  will  I  retrace  my 
footsteps." 

"  Stay,  young  man,"  said  the  stranger,  placing  him* 
self  full  in  Edward's  way  as  he  was  about  to  hasten  to 
the  inn.  "  You  have  drawn  me  in  to  betray  my  com 
rade  ;  but,  before  you  leave  this  place,  you  must  an 
swer  a  question  or  two  of  mine.  Do  you  mean  to  take 
the  law  with  you  ?  or  will  you  right  your  wrongs,  if 
you  have  any,  with  your  own  right  hand  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  intention  to  take  the  latter  method.  But, 
if  I  choose  the  former,  what  then  ?  "  demanded  Ed 
ward. 

"  Nay,  nothing  :  only  you  or  I  might  not  have  gone 
hence  alive,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  But  as  you  say 
he  shall  have  fair  play  "  — 

"  On  my  word,  friend,"  interrupted  the  young  man, 
"  I  fear  your  intelligence  has  come  too  late  to  do  either 
good  or  harm.  Look  towards  the  inn  :  my  compan- 


FANSHAWE.  179 

ions  are  getting  to  horse,  and,  my  life  on  it,  they  know 
whither  to  ride." 

So  saying,  he  hastened  away,  followed  by  the  stran 
ger.  It  was  indeed  evident  that  news  of  some  kind 
or  other  had  reached  the  village.  The  people  were 
gathered  in  groups,  conversing  eagerly  ;  and  the  pale 
cheeks,  uplifted  eyebrows,  and  outspread  hands  of 
some  of  the  female  sex  filled  Edward's  mind  with  un 
defined  but  intolerable  apprehensions.  He  forced  his 
way  to  Dr.  Melmoth,  who  had  just  mounted,  and,  seiz 
ing  his  bridle,  peremptorily  demanded  if  he  knew 
aught  of  Ellen  Langton. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Full  many  a  miserable  year  hath  passed : 
She  knows  him  as  one  dead,  or  worse  than  dead : 
And  many  a  change  her  varied  life  hath  known ; 
But  her  heart  none."  MATURIN. 

SINCE  her  interview  with  the  angler,  which  was 
interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Fanshawe,  Ellen 
Langton's  hitherto  calm  and  peaceful  mind  had  been 
in  a  state  of  insufferable  doubt  and  dismay.  She 
was  imperatively  called  upon  —  at  least,  she  so  con 
ceived  —  to  break  through  the  rules  which  nature  and 
education  impose  upon  her  sex,  to  quit  the  protec 
tion  of  those  whose  desire  for  her  welfare  was  true 
and  strong,  and  to  trust  herself,  for  what  purpose 
she  scarcely  knew,  to  a  stranger,  from  whom  the  in 
stinctive  purity  of  her  mind  would  involuntarily  have 
shrunk,  under  whatever  circumstances  she  had  met 
him.  The  letter  which  she  had  received  from  the 
hands  of  the  angler  had  seemed  to  her  inexperience  to 
prove  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  bearer  was  the  friend 
of  her  father,  and  authorized  by  him,  if  her  duty  and 
affection  were  stronger  than  her  fears,  to  guide  her  to 
his  retreat.  The  letter  spoke  vaguely  of  losses  and 
misfortunes,  and  of  a  necessity  for  concealment  on  her 
father's  part,  and  secrecy  on  hers  ;  and,  to  the  credit 
of  Ellen's  not  very  romantic  understanding,  it  must  be 
acknowledged  that  the  mystery  of  the  plot  had  nearly 
prevented  its  success.  She  did  not,  indeed,  doubt 
that  the  letter  was  from  her  father's  hand  ;  for  every 
line  and  stroke,  and  even  many  of  its  phrases,  were 


FANSHAWE.  181 

familiar  to  her.  Her  apprehension  was,  that  his  mis 
fortunes,  of  what  nature  soever  they  were,  had  affected 
his  intellect,  and  that,  under  such  an  influence,  he  had 
commanded  her  to  take  a  step  which  nothing  less  than 
such  a  command  could  justify.  Ellen  did  not,  how 
ever,  remain  long  in  this  opinion ;  for  when  she  repe- 
rused  the  letter,  and  considered  the  firm,  regular  char 
acters,  and  the  style,  —  calm  and  cold,  even  in  request 
ing  such  a  sacrifice,  —  she  felt  that  there  was  nothing 
like  insanity  here.  In  fine,  she  came  gradually  to  the 
belief  that  there  were  strong  reasons,  though  incom 
prehensible  by  her,  for  the  secrecy  that  her  father  had 
enjoined. 

Having  arrived  at  this  conviction,  her  decision  lay 
plain  before  her.  Her  affection  for  Mr.  Langtou  was 
not,  indeed,  —  nor  was  it  possible,  —  so  strong  as  that 
she  would  have  felt  for  a  parent  who  had  watched  over 
her  from  her  infancy.  '  Neither  was  the  conception  she 
had  unavoidably  formed  of  his  character  such  as  to 
promise  that  in  him  she  would  find  an  equivalent  for 
all  she  must  sacrifice.  On  the  contrary,  her  gentle 
nature  and  loving  heart,  which  otherwise  would  have 
rejoiced  in  a  new  object  of  affection,  now  shrank  with 
something  like  dread  from  the  idea  of  meeting  her 
father,  —  stately,  cold,  and  stern  as  she  could  not  but 
imagine  him.  A  sense  of  duty  was  therefore  Ellen's 
only  support  in  resolving  to  tread  the  dark  path  that 
lay  before  her. 

Had  there  been  any  person  of  her  own  sex  in  whom 
Ellen  felt  confidence,  there  is  little  doubt  that  she 
would  so  far  have  disobeyed  her  father's  letter  as  to 
communicate  its  contents,  and  take  counsel  as  to  her 
proceedings.  But  Mrs.  Melmoth  was  the  only  female 
—  excepting,  indeed,  the  maid-servant  —  to  whom  it 


182  FANSHAWE. 

was  possible  to  make  the  communication ;  and,  though 
Ellen  at  first  thought  of  such  a  step,  her  timidity,  and 
her  knowledge  of  the  lady's  character,  did  not  permit 
her  to  venture  upon  it.  She  next  reviewed  her  ac 
quaintances  of  the  other  sex ;  and  Dr.  Melmoth  first 
presented  himself,  as  in  every  respect  but  one,  an  un 
exceptionable  confidant.  But  the  single  exception  was 
equivalent  to  many.  The  maiden,  with  the  highest 
opinion  of  the  doctor's  learning  and  talents,  had  suffi 
cient  penetration  to  know,  that,  in  the  ways  of  the 
world,  she  was  herself  the  better  skilled  of  the  two. 
For  a  moment  she  thought  of  Edward  Walcott ;  but 
he  was  light  and  wild,  and,  which  her  delicacy  made 
an  insurmountable  objection,  there  was  an  untold  love 
between  them.  Her  thoughts  finally  centred  on  Fan- 
shawe.  In  his  judgment,  young  and  inexperienced 
though  he  was,  she  would  have  placed  a  firm  trust ; 
and  his  zeal,  from  whatever  cause  it  arose,  she  could 
not  doubt. 

If,  in  the  short  time  allowed  her  for  reflection,  an  op 
portunity  had  occurred  for  consulting  him,  she  would, 
in  all  probability,  have  taken  advantage  of  it.  But 
the  terms  on  which  they  had  parted  the  preceding 
evening  had  afforded  him  no  reason  to  hope  for  her 
confidence ;  and  he  felt  that  there  were  others  who 
had  a  better  right  to  it  than  himself.  He  did  not, 
therefore,  throw  himself  in  her  way ;  and  poor  Ellen 
was  consequently  left  without  an  adviser. 

The  determination  that  resulted  from  her  own  un 
assisted  wisdom  has  been  seen.  When  discovered  by 
Dr.  Melmoth  at  Hugh  Crombie's  inn,  she  was  wholly 
prepared  for  flight,  and,  but  for  the  intervention  of 
the  storm,  would,  ere  then,  have  been  far  away. 

The  firmness  of  resolve  that  had  impelled  a  timid 


FANSHAWE.  183 

maiden  upon  such  a  step  was  not  likely  to  be  broken 
by  one  defeat ;  and  Ellen,  accordingly,  confident  that 
the  stranger  would  make  a  second  attempt,  determined 
that  no  effort  on  her  part  should  be  wanting  to  its  suc 
cess.  On  reaching  her  chamber,  therefore,  instead  of 
retiring  to  rest  (of  which,  from  her  sleepless  thoughts 
of  the  preceding  night,  she  stood  greatly  in  need),  she 
sat  watching  for  the  abatement  of  the  storm.  Her 
meditations  were  now  calmer  than  at  any  time  since 
her  first  meeting  with  the  angler.  She  felt  as  if  her 
fate  was  decided.  The  stain  had  fallen  upon  her 
reputation :  she  was  no  longer  the  same  pure  being 
in  the  opinion  of  those  whose  approbation  she  most 
valued. 

One  obstacle  to  her  flight  —  and,  to  a  woman's 
mind,  a  most  powerful  one  —  had  thus  been  removed. 
Dark  and  intricate  as  was  the  way,  it  was  easier  now 
to  proceed  than  to  pause  ;  and  her  desperate  and  for 
lorn  situation  gave  her  a  strength  which  hitherto  she 
had  not  felt. 

At  every  cessation  in  the  torrent  of  rain  that  beat 
against  the  house,  Ellen  flew  to  the  window,  expecting 
to  see  the  stranger  form  beneath  it.  But  the  clouds 
would  again  thicken,  and  the  storm  recommence  with 
its  former  violence  ;  and  she  began  to  fear  that  the 
approach  of  morning  would  compel  her  to  meet  the 
now  dreaded  face  of  Dr.  Melmoth.  At  length,  how 
ever,  a  strong  and  steady  wind,  supplying  the  place 
of  the  fitful  gusts  of  the  preceding  part  of  the  night, 
broke  and  scattered  the  clouds  from  the  broad  ex 
panse  of  the  sky.  The  moon,  commencing  her  late 
voyage  not  long  before  the  sun,  was  now  visible,  set 
ting  forth  like  a  lonely  ship  from  the  dark  line  of  the 
horizon,  and  touching  at  many  a  little  silver  cloud  the 


184  FANS II A  WE. 

islands  of  that  aerial  deep.  Ellen  felt  that  now  the 
time  was  come  ;  and,  with  a  calmness  wonderful  to 
herself,  she  prepared  for  her  final  departure. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait  ere  she  saw,  between  the 
vacancies  of  the  trees,  the  angler  advancing  along  the 
shady  avenue  that  led  to  the  principal  entrance  of  Dr. 
Melmoth's  dwelling.  He  had  no  need  to  summon  her 
either  by  word  or  signal;  for  she  had  descended, 
emerged  from  the  door,  and  stood  before  him,  while 
he  was  yet  at  some  distance  from  the  house. 

"  You  have  watched  well,"  he  observed  in  a  low, 
strange  tone.  "  As  saith  the  Scripture,  '  Many  daugh 
ters  have  done  virtuously ;  but  thou  excellest  them 
all.'  " 

He  took  her  arm ;  and  they  hastened  down  the  ave 
nue.  Then,  leaving  Hugh  Crombie's  inn  on  their 
right,  they  found  its  master  in  a  spot  so  shaded  that 
the  moonbeams  could  not  enlighten  it.  He  held  by 
the  bridle  two  horses,  one  of  which  the  angler  assisted 
Ellen  to  mount.  Then,  turning  to  the  landlord  he 
pressed  a  purse  into  his  hand  ;  but  Hugh  drew  back, 
and  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  No  !  this  would  not  have  tempted  me  ;  nor  will  it 
reward  me,"  he  said.  "  If  you  have  gold  to  spare, 
there  are  some  that  need  it  more  than  I." 

"  I  understand  you,  mine  host.  I  shall  take  thought 
for  them ;  and  enough  will  remain  for  you  and  me," 
replied  his  comrade.  "  I  have  seen  the  day  when  such 
a  purse  would  not  have  slipped  between  your  fingers. 
Well,  be  it  so.  And  now,  Hugh,  my  old  friend,  a 
shake  of  your  hand  ;  for  we  are  seeing  our  last  of 
each  other." 

"  Pray  Heaven  it  be  so  !  though  I  wish  you  no  ill,'' 
said  the  landlord,  giving  his  hand. 


FANSHAWE.  185 

He  then  seemed  about  to  approach  Ellen,  who  had 
been  unable  to  distinguish  the  words  of  this  brief  con 
versation  ;  but  his  comrade  prevented  him.  u  There 
is  no  time  to  lose,"  he  observed.  "  The  moon  is  grow 
ing  pale  already,  and  we  should  have  been  many  a 
mile  beyond  the  valley  ere  this."  He  mounted  as  he 
spoke  ;  and,  guiding  Ellen's  rein  till  they  reached  the 
road,  they  dashed  away. 

It  was  now  that  she  felt  herself  completely  in  his 
power ;  and  with  that  consciousness  there  came  a  sud 
den  change  of  feeling,  and  an  altered  view  of  her  con 
duct.  A  thousand  reasons  forced  themselves  upon 
her  mind,  seeming  to  prove  that  she  had  been  de 
ceived  ;  while  the  motives,  so  powerful  with  her  but  a 
moment  before,  had  either  vanished  from  her  memory 
or  lost  all  their  efficacy.  Her  companion,  who  gazed 
searchingly  into  her  face,  where  the  moonlight,  com 
ing  down  between  the  pines,  allowed  him  to  read  its 
expression,  probably  discerned  somewhat  of  the  state 
of  her  thoughts. 

"  Do  you  repent  so  soon  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  "We  have 
a  weary  way  before  us.  Faint  not  ere  we  have  well 
entered  upon  it." 

'•  I  have  left  dear  friends  behind  me,  and  am  going 
I  know  not  whither,"  replied  Ellen,  tremblingly. 

"  You  have  a  faithful  guide,"  he  observed,  turning 
away  his  head,  and  speaking  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
endeavors  to  smother  a  laugh. 

Ellen  had  no  heart  to  continue  the  conversation  ; 
and  they  rode  on  in  silence,  and  through  a  wild  and 
gloomy  scene.  The  wind  roared  heavily  through  the 
forest,  and  the  trees  shed  their  raindrops  upon  the 
travellers.  The  road,  at  all  times  rough,  was  now 
broken  into  deep  gullies,  through  which  streams  went 


186  FA  NSHAWE. 

murmuring  down  to  mingle  with  the  river.  The  pale 
moonlight  combined  with  the  gray  of  the  morning  to 
give  a  ghastly  and  unsubstantial  appearance  to  every 
object. 

The  difficulties  of  the  road  had  been  so  much  in 
creased  by  the  storm,  that  the  purple  eastern  clouds 
gave  notice  of  the  near  approach  of  the  sun  just  as 
the  travellers  reached  the  little  lonesome  cottage  which 
Ellen  remembered  to  have  visited  several  months 
before.  On  arriving  opposite  to  it,  her  companion 
checked  his  horse,  and  gazed  with  a  wild  earnestness 
at  the  wretched  habitation.  Then,  stifling  a  groan" 
that  would  not  altogether  be  repressed,  he  was  about  to 
pass  on  ;  but  at  that  moment  the  cottage-door  opened, 
and  a  woman,  whose  sour,  unpleasant  countenance 
Ellen  recognized,  came  hastily  forth.  She  seemed  not 
to  heed  the  travellers  ;  but  the  angler,  his  voice  thrill 
ing  and  quivering  with  indescribable  emotion,  ad 
dressed  her. 

"  Woman,  whither  do  you  go  ?  "  he  inquired. 

She  started,  but,  after  a  momentary  pause,  replied, 
"  There  is  one  within  at  the  point  of  death.  She  strug 
gles  fearfully;  and  I  cannot  endure  to  watch  alone  by 
her  bedside.  If  you  are  Christians,  come  in  with 
me." 

Ellen's  companion  leaped  hastily  from  his  horse,  as 
sisted  her  also  to  dismount,  and  followed  the  woman 
into  the  cottage,  having  first  thrown  the  bridles  of 
the  hcrses  carelessly  over  the  branch  of  a  tree.  Ellen 
trembled  at  the  awful  scene  she  would  be  compelled 
to  witness ;  but,  when  death  was  so  near  at  hand,  it 
was  more  terrible  to  stand  alone  in  the  dim  morning 
light  than  even  to  watch  the  parting  of  soul  and  body. 
She  therefore  entered  the  cottage. 


FANSHAWE.  187 

Her  guide,  his  face  muffled  in  his  cloak,  had  taken 
his  stand  at  a  distance  from  the  death-bed,  in  a  part 
of  the  room  which  neither  the  increasing  daylight  nor 
the  dim  rays  of  a  solitary  lamp  had  yet  enlightened. 
At  Ellen's  entrance,  the  dying  woman  lay  still,  and 
apparently  calm,  except  that  a  plaintive,  half -articu 
late  sound  occasionally  wandered  through  her  lips. 

"  Hush  !  For  mercy's  sake,  silence !  "  whispered 
the  other  woman  to  the  strangers.  "  There  is  good 
hope  now  that  she  will  die  a  peaceable  death  ;  but,  if 
she  is  disturbed,  the  boldest  of  us  will  not  dare  to 
stand  by  her  bedside." 

The  whisper  by  which  her  sister  endeavored  to  pre 
serve  quiet  perhaps  reached  the  ears  of  the  dying  fe 
male  ;  for  she  now  raised  herself  in  bed,  slowly,  but 
with  a  strength  superior  to  what  her  situation  prom 
ised.  Her  face  was  ghastly  and  wild,  from  long  ill 
ness,  approaching  death,  and  disturbed  intellect ;  and 
a  disembodied  spirit  coidd  scarcely  be  a  more  fearful 
object  than  one  whose  soul  was  just  struggling  forth. 
Her  sister,  approaching  with  the  soft  and  stealing 
step  appropriate  to  the  chamber  of  sickness  and  death, 
attempted  to  replace  the  covering  around  her,  and  to 
compose  her  again  upon  the  pillow.  u  Lie  down  and 
sleep,  sister,"  she  said  ;  "  and,  when  the  day  breaks, 
I  will  waken  you.  Methinks  your  breath  conies  freer 
already.  A  little  more  slumber,  and  to-uiorrow  you 
will  be  well." 

"  My  illness  is  gone  :  I  am  well,"  said  the  dying 
woman,  gasping  for  breath.  "I  wander  where  the 
fresh  breeze  comes  sweetly  over  my  face ;  but  a  close 
and  stifled  air  has  choked  my  lungs." 

"Yet  a  little  while,  and  you  will  no  longer  draw 
your  breath  in  pain,"  observed  her  sister,  again  replac 
ing  the  bedclothes,  which  she  continued  to  throw  off. 


188  FANS II A  WE. 

"  My  husband  is  with  me,"  murmured  the 
"  He  walks  by  my  side,  and  speaks  to  me  as  in  old 
times  ;  but  his  words  come  faintly  on  my  ear.  Cheer 
me  and  comfort  me,  my  husband  ;  for  there  is  a  ter 
ror  in  those  dim,  motionless  eyes,  and  in  that  shadowy 
voice." 

As  she  spoke  thus,  she  seemed  to  gaze  upon  some 
object  that  stood  by  her  bedside;  and  the  eyes  of 
those  who  witnessed  this  scene  could  not  but  follow 
the  direction  of  hers.  They  observed  that  the  dying 
woman's  own  shadow  was  marked  upon  the  wall,  re 
ceiving  a  tremulous  motion  from  the  fitful  rays  of  the 
lamp,  and  from  her  own  convulsive  efforts.  "  Mv 
husband  stands  gazing  on  me,"  she  said  again ;  u  but 
rny  son,  —  where  is  he  ?  And,  as  I  ask,  the  father 
turns  away  his  face.  Where  is  our  son?  For  his 
sake,  I  have  longed  to  come  to  this  land  of  rest.  For 
him  I  have  sorrowed  many  years.  Will  he  not  com 
fort  me  now?  " 

At  these  words  the  stranger  made  a  few  hasty  steps 
towards  the  bed  ;  but,  ere  he  reached  it,  he  conquered 
the  impulse  that  drew  him  thither,  and,  shrouding  his 
face  more  deeply  in  his  cloak,  returned  to  his  former 
position.  The  dying  woman,  in  the  mean  time,  had 
thrown  herself  back  upon  the  bed ;  and  her  sobbing 
and  wailing,  imaginary  as  was  their  cause,  were  inex 
pressibly  affecting. 

"  Take  me  back  to  earth,"  she  said  ;  "  for  its  griefs 
have  followed  me  hither." 

The  stranger  advanced,  and,  seizing  the  lamp,  knelt 
down  by  the  bedside,  throwing  the  light  full  upon  his 
pale  and  convulsed  features. 

"  Mother,  here  is  your  son  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

At  that  unforgotten  voice,  the  darkness  burst  away 


FANSHAWE.  189 

at  once  from  her  soul.  She  arose  in  bed,  her  eyes  and 
her  whole  countenance  beaming  with  joy,  and  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  A  multitude  of  words 
seemed  struggling  for  utterance  ;  but  they  gave  place 
to  a  low  moaning  sound,  and  then  to  the  silence  of 
death.  The  one  moment  of  happiness,  that  recom 
pensed  years  of  sorrow,  had  been  her  last.  Her  son 
laid  the  lifeless  form  upon  the  pillow,  and  gazed  with 
fixed  eyes  on  his  mother's  face. 

As  he  looked,  the  expression  of  enthusiastic  joy  that 
parting  life  had  left  upon  the  features  faded  gradually 
away ;  and  the  countenance,  though  no  longer  wild, 
assumed  the  sadness  which  it  had  worn  through  a  long 
course  of  grief  and  pain.  On  beholding  this  natural 
consequence  of  death,  the  thought,  perhaps,  occurred 
to  him,  that  her  soul,  no  longer  dependent  on  the  im 
perfect  means  of  intercourse  possessed  by  mortals,  had 
communed  with  his  own,  and  become  acquainted  with 
all  its  guilt  and  misery.  He  started  from  the  bedside, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  hide  it 
from  those  dead  eyes. 

Such  a  scene  as  has  been  described  could  not  but 
have  a  powerful  effect  upon  any  one  who  retained 
aught  of  humanity  ;  and  the  grief  of  the  son,  whose 
natural  feelings  had  been  blunted,  but  not  destroyed, 
by  an  evil  life,  was  much  more  violent  than  his  out 
ward  demeanor  would  have  expressed.  But  his  deep 
repentance  for  the  misery  he  had  brought  upon  his 
parent  did  not  produce  in  him  a  resolution  to  do 
wrong  no  more.  The  sudden  consciousness  of  ac 
cumulated  guilt  made  him  desperate.  He  felt  as  if 
no  one  had  thenceforth  a  claim  to  justice  or  compas 
sion  at  his  hands,  when  his  neglect  and  cruelty  had 
poisoned  his  mother's  life,  and  hastened  her  death. 


190  F ANSI! A  WE. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  Devil  wrought  with  him  to  his 
own  destruction,  reversing  the  salutary  effect  which 
his  mother  would  have  died  exultingly  to  produce 
upon  his  mind.  He  now  turned  to  Ellen  Langton  with 
a  demeanor  singularly  calm  and  composed. 

"We  must  resume  our  journey,"  he  said,  in  his 
usual  tone  of  voice.  "  The  sun  is  on  the  point  of  ris 
ing,  though  but  little  light  finds  its  way  into  this 
hovel." 

Ellen's  previous  suspicions  as  to  the  character  of 
her  companion  had  now  become  certainty  so  far  as  to 
convince  her  that  she  was  in  the  power  of  a  lawless 
and  guilty  man ;  though  what  fate  he  intended  for 
her  she  was  unable  to  conjecture.  An  open  opposi 
tion  to  his  will,  however,  could  not  be  ventured  upon  ; 
especially  as  she  discovered,  on  looking  round  the 
apartment,  that,  with  the  exception  of  the  corpse,  they 
were  alone. 

"  Will  you  not  attend  your  mother's  funeral  ?  "  she 
asked,  trembling,  and  conscious  that  he  would  discover 
her  fears. 

"  The  dead  must  bury  their  dead,"  he  replied.  "  I 
have  brought  my  mother  to  her  grave,  —  and  what 
can  a  son  do  more  ?  This  purse,  however,  will  serve 
to  lay  her  in  the  earth,  and  leave  something  for  the  old 
hag.  Whither  is  she  gone  ?  "  interrupted  he,  casting 
a  glance  round  the  room  in  search  of  the  old  woman. 
"  Nay,  then,  we  must  speedily  to  horse.  I  know  her 
of  old." 

Thus  saying,  he  threw  the  purse  upon  the  table, 
and,  without  trusting  himself  to  look  again  towards 
the  dead,  conducted  Ellen  out  of  the  cottage.  The 
first  rays  of  the  sun  at  that  moment  gilded  the  tallest 
trees  of  the  forest. 


• 


FANS  HA  WE.  191 

On  looking  towards  the  spot  were  the  horses  had 
stood,  Ellen  thought  that  Providence,  in  answer  to  her 
prayers,  had  taken  care  for  her  deliverance.  They 
were  no  longer  there,  —  a  circumstance  easily  ac 
counted  for  by  the  haste  with  which  the  bridles  had 
been  thrown  over  the  branch  of  the  tree.  Her  com 
panion,  however,  imputed  it  to  another  cause. 

"  The  hag !  She  would  sell  her  own  flesh  and  blood 
by  weight  and  measure,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  This  is  some  plot  of  hers,  I  know  well." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  for  a  moment's 
space,  seeming  to  reflect  on  the  course  most  advisable 
to  be  pursued.  Ellen,  perhaps  unwisely,  interposed. 

"  Would  it  not  be  well  to  return  ? "  she  asked, 
timidly.  "  There  is  now  no  hope  of  escaping ;  but  I 
might  yet  reach  home  undiscovered." 

"•  Return !  "  repeated  her  guide,  with  a  look  and 
smile  from  which  she  turned  away  her  face.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  your  father  and  his  misfortunes  ?  Xo, 
no,  sweet  Ellen  :  it  is  too  late  for  such  thoughts  as 
these." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  towards  the  forest, 
in  the  rear  of  the  cottage.  She  would  fain  have  re 
sisted  ;  but  they  were  all  alone,  and  the  attempt  must 
have  been  both  fruitless  and  dangerous.  She  there 
fore  trod  with  him  a  path  so  devious,  so  faintly  traced, 
and  so  overgrown  with  bushes  and  young  trees,  that 
only  a  most  accurate  acquaintance  in  his  early  days 
could  have  enabled  her  guide  to  retain  it.  To  him, 
however,  it  seemed  so  perfectly  familiar,  that  he  was 
not  once  compelled  to  pause,  though  the  numerous 
windings  soon  deprived  Ellen  of  all  knowledge  of  the 
situation  of  the  cottage.  They  descended  a  steep  hill, 
and,  proceeding  parallel  to  the  river,  —  as  Ellen 


192  FANSHAWE. 

judged  by  its  rushing  sound,  —  at  length  found  them 
selves  at  what  proved  to  be  the  termination  of  their 
walk. 

Ellen  now  recollected  a  remark  of  Edward  WaL 
cott's  respecting  the  wild  and  rude  scenery  through 
which  the  river  here  kept  its  way ;  and,  in  less  agitat 
ing  circumstances,  her  pleasure  and  admiration  would 
have  been  great.  They  stood  beneath  a  precipice,  so 
high  that  the  loftiest  pine-tops  (and  many  of  them 
seemed  to  soar  to  heaven)  scarcely  surmounted  it. 
This  line  of  rock  has  a  considerable  extent,  at  unequal 
heights,  and  with  many  interruptions,  along  the  course 
of  the  river;  and  it  seems  probable  that,  at  some 
former  period,  it  was  the  boundary  of  the  waters, 
though  they  are  now  confined  within  far  less  ambi 
tious  limits.  The  inferior  portion  of  the  crag,  beneath 
which  Ellen  and  her  guide  were  standing,  varies  so 
far  from  the  perpendicular  as  not  to  be  inaccessible 
by  a  careful  footstep.  But  only  one  person  has  been 
known  to  attempt  the  ascent  of  the  superior  half,  and 
only  one  the  descent ;  yet,  steep  as  is  the  height,  trees 
and  bushes  of  various  kinds  have  clungf  to  the  rock, 

O 

wherever  their  roots  could  gain  the  slightest  hold; 
thus  seeming  to  prefer  the  scanty  and  difficult  nourish 
ment  of  the  cliff  to  a  more  luxurious  life  in  the  rich 
interval  that  extends  from  its  base  to  the  river.  But, 
whether  or  no  these  hardy  vegetables  have  voluntarily 
chosen  their  rude  resting-place,  the  cliff  is  indebted  to 
them  for  much  of  the  beauty  that  tempers  its  sublim 
ity.  When  the  eye  is  pained  and  wearied  by  the  bold 
nakedness  of  the  rock,  it  rests  with  pleasure  on  the 
cheerful  foliage  of  the  birch,  or  upon  the  darker  green 
of  the  funereal  pine.  Just  at  the  termination  of  the  ac 
cessible  portion  of  the  crag,  these  trees  are  so  n.umer- 


FANSHAWE.  193 

ous,  and  their  foliage  so  dense,  that  they  completely 
shroud  from  view  a  considerable  excavation,  formed, 
probably,  hundreds  of  years  since,  by  the  fall  of  a  por 
tion  of  the  rock.  The  detached  fragment  still  lies  at 
a  little  distance  from  the  base,  gray  and  moss-grown, 
but  corresponding,  in  its  general  outline,  to  the  cavity 
from  which  it  was  rent. 

But  the  most  singular  and  beautiful  object  in  all 
this  scene  is  a  tiny  fount  of  crystal  water,  that  gushes 
forth  from  the -high,  smooth  forehead  of  the  cliff.  Its 
perpendicular  descent  is  of  many  feet ;  after  which  it 
finds  its  way,  with  a  sweet  diminutive  murmur,  to  the 
level  ground. 

It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  whence  the  barren  rock 
procures  even  the  small  supply  of  water  that  is  neces- 
sarv  to  the  existence  of  this  stream  :  it  is  as  unac 
countable  as  the  gush  of  gentle  feeling  which  some 
times  proceeds  from  the  hardest  heart :  but  there  it 
continues  to  flow  and  fall,  undiminished  and  unin- 
creased.  The  stream  is  so  slender,  that  the  gentlest 
breeze  suffices  to  disturb  its  descent,  and  to  scatter  its 
pure  sweet  waters  over  the  face  of  the  cliff.  But  in 
that  deep  forest  there  is  seldom  a  breath  of  wind  ;  so 
that,  plashing  continually  upon  one  spot,  the  fount  has 
worn  its  own  little  channel  of  white  sand,  by  which  it 
finds  its  way  to  the  river.  Alas  that  the  Naiades 
have  lost  their  old  authority !  for  what  a  deity  of  tiny 
loveliness  must  once  have  presided  here  ! 

Ellen's  companion  paused  not  to  gaze  either  upon 
the  loveliness  or  the  sublimity  of  this  scene,  but,  assist 
ing  her  where  it  was  requisite,  began  the  steep  and 
difficult  ascent  of  the  lower  part  of  the  cliff.  The 
maiden's  ingenuity  in  vain  endeavored  to  assign  rea 
sons  for  this  movement ;  but  when  they  reached  the 

VOL.    XI.  13 


194  FANSHAWE. 

tuft  of  trees,  which,  as  has  been  noticed,  grew  at  th« 
ultimate  point  where  mortal  footstep  might  safely 
tread,  she  perceived  through  their  thick  branches  the 
recess  in  the  rock.  Here  they  entered ;  and  her  guide 
pointed  to  a  mossy  seat,  in  the  formation  of  which,  to 
judge  from  its  regularity,  art  had  probably  a  share. 

"  Here  you  may  remain  in  safety,"  he  observed, 
"  till  I  obtain  the  means  of  proceeding.  In  this  spot 
you  need  fear  no  intruder ;  but  it  will  be  dangerous  to 
venture  beyond  its  bounds." 

The  meaning  glance  that  accompanied  these  words 
intimated  to  poor  Ellen,  that,  in  warning  her  against 
clanger,  he  alluded  to  the  vengeance  with  which  he 
would  visit  any  attempt  to  escape.  To  leave  her  thus 
alone,  trusting  to  the  influence  of  such  a  threat,  was  a 
bold,  yet  a  necessary  and  by  no  means  a  hopeless  meas 
ure.  On  Ellen  it  produced  the  desired  effect ;  and  she 
sat  in  the  cave  as  motionless,  for  a  time,  as  if  she  had 
herself  been  a  part  of  the  rock.  In  other  circum 
stances  this  shady  recess  would  have  been  a  delightful 
retreat  during  the  sultry  warmth  of  a  summer's  day. 
The  dewy  coolness  of  the  rock  kept  the  air  always 
fresh  and  the  sunbeams  never  thrust  themselves  so  as 
to  dissipate  the  mellow  twilight  through  the  green  trees 
with  which  the  chamber  was  curtained.  Ellen's  sleep 
lessness  and  agitation  for  many  preceding  hours  had 
perhaps  deadened  her  feelings ;  for  she  now  felt  a  sort 
of  indifference  creeping  upon  her,  an  inability  to  real 
ize  the  evils  of  her  situation,  at  the  same  time  that  she 
was  perfectly  aware  of  them  all.  This  torpor  of  mind 
increased,  till  her  eyelids  began  to  grow  heavy  and  the 
cave  and  trees  to  swim  before  her  sight.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  more  she  would  probably  have  been  in  dream 
less  slumber ;  but,  rousing  herself  by  a  strong  effort, 


FANSHAWE.  195 

she  looked  round  the  narrow  limits  of  the  cave  in 
search  of  objects  to  excite  her  worn-out  mind. 

She  now  perceived,  wherever  the  smooth  rock  af 
forded  place  for  them,  the  initials,  or  the  full-length 
names  of  former  visitants  of  the  cave.  What  wan 
derer  on  mountain-tops  or  in  deep  solitudes  has  not 
felt  the  influence  of  these  records  of  humanity,  telling 
him,  when  such  a  conviction  is  soothing  to  his  heart, 
that  he  is  not  alone  in  the  world  ?  It  was  singular, 
that,  when  her  own  mysterious  situation  had  almost 
lost  its  power  to  engage  her  thoughts,  Ellen  perused 
these  barren  memorials  with  a  certain  degree  of  inter 
est.  She  went  on  repeating  them  aloud,  and  starting  at 
the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  till  at  length,  as  one  name 
passed  through  her  lips,  she  paused,  and  then,  lean- 
ing  her  forehead  against  the  letters,  burst  into  tears. 
It  was  the  name  of  Edward  Walcott ;  and  it  struck 
upon  her  heart,  arousing  her  to  a  full  sense  of  her  pres 
ent  misfortunes  and  dangers,  and,  more  painful  still, 
of  her  past  happiness.  Her  tears  had,  however,  a 
soothing,  and  at  the  same  time  a  strengthening  effect 
upon  her  mind  ;  for,  when  their  gush  was  over,  she 
raised  her  head,  and  began  to  meditate  on  the  means 
of  escape.  She  wondered  at  the  species  of  fascination 
that  had  kept  her,  as  if  chained  to  the  rock,  so  long, 
when  there  was,  in  reality,  nothing  to  bar  her  pathway. 
She  determined,  late  as  it  was,  to  attempt  her  own 
deliverance,  and  for  that  purpose  began  slowly  and 
cautiously  to  emerge  from  the  cave. 

Peeping  out  from  among  the  trees,  she  looked  and 
listened  with  most  painful  anxiety  to  discover  if  any 
living  thing  were  in  that  seeming  solitude,  or  if  any 
sound  disturbed  the  heavy  stillness.  But  she  saw  only 
Nature  in  her  wildest  forms,  and  heard  only  the  plash 


196  FAN  SNA  WE. 

and  murmur  (almost  inaudible,  because  continual)  of 
the  little  waterfall,  and  the  quick,  short  throbbing  of 
her  own  heart,  against  which  she  pressed  her  hand 
as  if  to  hush  it.  Gathering  courage,  therefore,  she 
began  to  descend ;  and,  starting  often  at  the  loose 
stones  that  even  her  light  footstep  displaced  and  sent 
rattling  down,  she  at  length  reached  the  base  of  the 
crag  in  safety.  She  then  made  a  few  steps  in  the  di 
rection,  as  nearly  as  she  could  judge,  by  which  she  ar 
rived  at  the  spot,  but  paused,  with  a  sudden  revulsion 
of  the  blood  to  her  heart,  as  her  guide  emerged  from 
behind  a  projecting  part  of  the  rock.  He  approached 
her  deliberately,  an  ironical  smile  writhing  his  fea 
tures  into  a  most  disagreeable  expression ;  while  in  his 
eyes  there  was  something  that  seemec]  a  wild,  fierce  joy. 
By  a  species  of  sophistry,  of  which  oppressors  often 
make  use,  he  had  brought  himself  to  believe  that  he 
was  now  the  injured  one,  and  that  Ellen,  by  her  dis 
trust  of  him,  had  fairly  subjected  herself  to  whatever 
evil  it  consisted  with  his  will  and  power  to  inflict  upon 
her.  Her  only  restraining  influence  over  him,  the 
consciousness,  in  his  own  mind,  that  he  possessed  her 
confidence,  was  now  done  away.  Ellen,  as  well  as  her 
enemy,  felt  that  this  was  the  case.  She  knew  not 
what  to  dread ;  but  she  was  well  aware  that  danger 
was  at  hand,  and  that,  in  the  deep  wilderness,  there 
was  none  to  help  her,  except  that  Being  with  whose 
inscrutable  purposes  it  might  consist  to  allow  the 
wicked  to  triumph  for  a  season,  and  the  innocent  to 
be  brought  low. 

"Are  you  so  soon  weary  of  this  quiet  retreat?"  de 
manded  her  guide,  continuing  to  wear  the  same  sneer 
ing  smile.  "  Or  has  your  anxiety  for  your  father  in 
duced  you  to  set  forth  alone  in  quest  of  the  afflicted 
old  man?  " 


FANSHAWE.  197 

"  Oh,  if  I  were  but  with  him  !  "  exclaimed  Ellen. 
"  But  this  place  is  lonely  and  fearful ;  and  I  cannot 
endure  to  remain  here." 

"Lonely,  is  it,  sweet  Ellen?"  he  rejoined;  "am  I 
not  with  you  ?  Yes,  it  is  lonely,  —  lonely  as  guilt  could 
wish.  Cry  aloud,  Ellen,  and  spare  not.  Shriek,  and 
see  if  there  be  any  among  these  rocks  and  woods  to 
hearken  to  you !  " 

"There  is,  there  is  One,"  exclaimed  Ellen,  shud 
dering,  and  affrighted  at  the  fearful  meaning  of  his 
countenance.  "  He  is  here !  He  is  there  !  "  And  she 
pointed  to  heaven. 

"  It  may  be  so,  dearest,"  he  replied.  "  But  if  there 
be  an  Ear  that  hears,  and  an  Eye  that  sees  all  the  evil 
of  the  earth,  yet  the  Arm  is  slow  to  avenge.  Else 
why  do  I  stand  before  you  a  living  man  ?  " 

"  His  vengeance  may  be  delayed  for  a  time,  but  not 
forever,"  she  answered,  gathering  a  desperate  courage 
from  the  extremity  of  her  fear. 

"You  say  true,  lovely  Ellen;  and  I  have  done 
enough,  erenow,  to  insure  its  heaviest  weight.  There 
is  a  pass,  when  evil  deeds  can  add  nothing  to  guilt, 
nor  good  ones  take  anything  from  it." 

"  Think  of  your  mother.  —  of  her  sorrow  through 
life,  and  perhaps  even  after  death,"  Ellen  began  to 
say.  But,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  the  expression  of 
his  face  was  changed,  becoming  suddenly  so  dark  and 
fiend-like,  that  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  fell  on  her 
knees  before  him. 

"  I  have  thought  of  my  mother,"  he  replied,  speak 
ing  very  low,  and  putting  his  face  close  to  hers. 
"  I  remember  the  neglect,  the  wrong,  the  lingering 
and  miserable  death,  that  she  received  at  my  hands. 
By  what  claim  can  either  man  or  woman  henceforth 


198  FANSHA  WE. 

expect  mercy  from  me?  If  God  will  help  you,  be  it 
so ;  but  by  those  words  you  have  turned  my  heart  to 
stone." 

At  this  period  of  their  conversation,  when  Ellen's 
peril  seemed  most  imminent,  the  attention  of  both  was 
attracted  by  a  fragment  of  rock,  which,  falling  from 
the  summit  of  the  crag,  struck  very  near  them.  Ellen 
started  from  her  knees,  and,  with  her  false  guide,  gazed 
eagerly  upward,  —  he  in  the  fear  of  interruption,  she 
in  the  hope  of  deliverance. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

**  At  length,  he  cries,  behold  the  fated  spring ! 
Ton  rugged  cliff  conceals  the  fountain  blest, 
Dark  rocks  its  crystal  source  o'ershadowing." 

PSYCHB. 

THE  tale  now  returns  to  Fanshawe,  who,  as  will  be 
recollected,  after  being  overtaken  by  Edward  Walcott, 
was  left  with  little  apparent  prospect  of  aiding  in  the 
deliverance  of  Ellen  Langton. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  analyze  the  feelings  with 
which  the  student  pursued  the  chase,  or  to  decide 
whether  he  was  influenced  and  animated  by  the  same 
hopes  of  successful  love  that  cheered  his  rival.  That 
he  was  conscious  of  such  hopes,  there  is  little  reason  to 
suppose ;  for  the  most  powerful  minds  are  not  always 
the  best  acquainted  with  their  own  feelings.  Had 
Fanshawe,  moreover,  acknowledged  to  himself  the  pos 
sibility  of  gaming  Ellen's  affections,  his  generosity 
would  have  induced  fiiin  to  refrain  from  her  society 
before  it  was  too  late.  He  had  read  her  character 
with  accuracy,  and  had  seen  how  fit  she  was  to  love, 
and  to  be  loved,  by  a  man  who  could  find  his  happi 
ness  in  the  common  occupations  of  the  world ;  and 
Fanshawe  never  deceived  himself  so  far  as  to  suppose 
that  this  would  be  the  case  with  him.  Indeed,  he 
often  wondered  at  the  passion  with  which  Ellen's  sim 
ple  loveliness  of  mind  and  person  had  inspired  him, 
and  which  seemed  to  be  founded  on  the  principle 
of  contrariety,  rather  than  of  sympathy.  It  was  the 
yearning  of  a  soul,  formed  by  Nature  in  a  pecidiar 


200  FANS  HA  WE. 

mould,  for  communion  with  those  to  whom  it  bore  a 
resemblance,  yet  of  whom  it  was  not.  But  there  was 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  Ellen,  who  differed  from 
the  multitude  only  as  being  purer  and  better,  would 
cast  away  her  affections  on  the  one,  of  all  who  sur 
rounded  her,  least  fitted  to  make  her  happy.  Thus 
Fanshawe  reasoned  with  himself,  and  of  this  he  be 
lieved  that  he  was  convinced.  Yet  ever  and  anon  he 
found  himself  involved  in  a  dream  of  bliss,  of  which 
Ellen  was  to  be  the  giver  and  the  sharer.  Then  would 
he  rouse  himself,  and  press  upon  his  mind  the  chilling 
consciousness  that  it  was  and  could  be  but  a  dream. 
There  was  also  another  feeling,  apparently  discordant 
with  those  which  have  been  enumerated.  It  was  a 
longing  for  rest,  for  his  old  retirement,  that  came  at 
intervals  so  powerfully  upon  him,  as  he  rode  on,  that 
his  heart  sickened  of  the  active  exertion  on  which  fate 
had  thrust  him. 

After  being  overtaken  by  Edward  Walcott,  Fan 
shawe  continued  his  journey  with  as  much  speed  as 
was  attainable  by  his  wearied  horse,  but  at  a  pace  in 
finitely  too  slow  for  his  earnest  thoughts.  These  had 
carried  him  far  away,  leaving  ^iim  only  such  a  con 
sciousness  of  his  present  situation  as  to  make  diligent 
use  of  the  spur,  when  a  horse's  tread  at  no  great  dis 
tance  struck  upon  his  ear.  He  looked  forward  and 
behind  ;  but,  though  a  considerable  extent  of  the  nar 
row,  rocky,  and  grass-grown  road  was  visible,  he  was 
the  only  traveller  there.  Yet  again  he  heard  the 
sound,  which,  he  now  discovered,  proceeded  from 
among  the  trees  that  lined  the  roadside.  Alighting, 
he  entered  the  forest,  with  the  intention,  if  the  steed 
proved  to  be  disengaged,  and  superior  to  his  own,  of 
appropriating  him  to  his  own  use.  He  soon  gajned  a 


FANSHAWE.  201 

view  of  the  object  lie  sought ;  but  the  animal  rendered 
a  closer  acquaintance  unattainable,  by  immediately 
taking  to  his  heels.  Faiishawe  had,  however,  made 
a  most  interesting  discovery  ;  for  the  horse  was  ac 
coutred  with  a  side-saddle  ;  and  wTho  but  Ellen  Lang- 
ton  could  have  been  his  rider?  At  this  conclusion, 
though  his  perplexity  was  thereby  in  no  degree  dimin 
ished,  the  student  immediately  arrived.  Keturning  to 
the  road,  and  perceiving  on  the  summit  of  the  hill  a 
cottage,  which  he  recognized  as  the  one  he  had  entered 
with  Ellen  and  Edward  Walcott,  he  determined  there 
to  make  inquiry  respecting  the  objects  of  his  pursuit. 

On  reaching  the  door  of  the  poverty-stricken  dwell 
ing,  he  saw  that  it  was  not  now  so  desolate  pf  inmates 
as  on  his  previous  visit.  In  the  single  inhabitable 
apartment  were  several  elderly  women,  clad  evidently 
in  their  well-worn  and  well-saved  Sunday  clothes,  and 
all  wearing  a  deep  grievous  expression  of  countenance. 
Fanshawe  was  not  long  in  deciding  that  death  was 
within  the  cottage,  and  that  these  aged  females  were 
of  the  class  who  love  the  house  of  mourning,  because 
to  them  it  is  a  house  of  feasting.  It  is  a  fact,  disgust 
ing  and  lamentable,  that  the  disposition  which  Heaven, 
for  the  best  of  purposes,  has  implanted  in  the  female 
breast  —  to  watch  by  the  sick  and  comfort  the  afflicted 
—  frequently  becomes  depraved  into  an  odious  love  of 
scenes  of  pain  and  death  and  sorrow.  Such  women 
are  like  the  Ghouls  of  the  Arabian  Tales,  whose  feast 
ing  was  among  tombstones  and  upon  dead  carcasses. 

(It  is  sometimes,  though  less  frequently,  the  case, 
that  this  disposition  to  make  a  "  joy  of  grief  "  extends 
to  individuals  of  the  other  sex.  But  in  us  it  is  even 
less  excusable  and  more  disgusting,  because  it  is  our 
nature  to  shun  the  sick  and  afflicted ;  and,  unless  re- 


202  FANSHAWE. 

strained  by  principles  other  than  we  bring  into  the 
world  with  us,  men  might  follow  the  example  of  many 
animals  in  destroying  the  infirm  of  their  own  species. 
Indeed,  instances  of  this  nature  might  be  adduced 
among  savage  nations.)  Sometimes,  however,  from 
an  original  lusus  naturae,  or  from  the  influence  of  cir 
cumstances,  a  man  becomes  a  haunter  of  death-beds, 
a  tormentor  of  afflicted  hearts,  and  a  follower  of  funer 
als.  Such  an  abomination  now  appeared  before  Fan- 
shawe,  and  beckoned  him  -into  the  cottage.  He  was 
considerably  beyond  the  middle  age,  rather  corpulent, 
with  a  broad,  fat,  tallow  -  complexioned  countenance. 
The  student  obeyed  his  silent  call,  and  entered  the 
room,  through  the  open  door  of  which  he  had  been 
gazing. 

He  now  beheld,  stretched  out  upon  the  bed  where 
she  had  so  lately  lain  in  life,  though  dying,  the  yet  un- 
coffined  corpse  of  the  aged  woman,  whose  death  has 
been  described.  How  frightful  it  seemed  !  —  that 
fixed  countenance  of  ashy  paleness,  amid  its  decora 
tions  of  muslin  and  fine  linen,  as  if  a  bride  were  decked 
for  the  marriage  -  chamber,  as  if  death  were  a  bride 
groom,  and  the  coffin  a  bridal  bed.  Alas  that  the 
vanity  of  dress  should  extend  even  to  the  grave ! 

The  female  who,  as  being  the  near  and  only  rela 
tive  of  the  deceased,  was  supposed  to  stand  in  need 
of  comfort,  was  surrounded  by  five  or  six  of  her  own 
sex.  These  continually  poured  into  her  ear  the  stale, 
trite  maxims  which,  where  consolation  is  actually  re 
quired,  add  torture  insupportable  to  the  wounded  heart. 
Their  present  object,  however,  conducted  herself  with 
all  due  decorum,  holding  her  handkerchief  to  her  tear 
less  eyes,  and  answering  with  very  grievous  groans  to 
the  words  of  her  comforters.  Who  could  have  Tmag- 


FANSHAWE.  203 

ined  that  there  was  joy  in  her  heart,  because,  since 
her  sister's  death,  there  was  but  one  remaining  obsta 
cle  between  herself  and  the  sole  property  of  that 
wretched  cottage  ? 

While  Fanshawe  stood  silently  observing  this  scene, 
a  low,  monotonous  voice  was  uttering  some  words  in 
his  ear,  of  the  meaning  of  whicli  his  mind  did  not  im 
mediately  take  note.  He  turned,  and  saw  that  the 
speaker  was  the  person  who  had  invited  him  to  enter. 

"  What  is  your  pleasure  with  me,  sir  ?  "  demanded 
the  student. 

"  I  make  bold  to  ask,"  replied  the  man,  "  whether 
you  would  choose  to  partake  of  some  creature  comfortf 
before  joining  in  prayer  with  the  family  and  friends 
of  our  deceased  sister  ?  "  As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  to 
a  table,  on  which  was  a  moderate-sized  stone  jug  and 
two  or  three  broken  glasses ;  for  then,  as  now,  there 
were  few  occasions  of  joy  or  grief  on  which  ardent 
spirits  were  not  considered  indispensable,  to  heighten 
the  one  or  to  alleviate  the  other. 

"  I  stand  in  no  need  of  refreshment,"  answered 
Fanshawe  ;  "  and  it  is  not  my  intention  to  pray  at 
present." 

"  I  pray  your  pardon,  reverend  sir,"  rejoined  the 
other ;  "  but  your  face  is  pale,  and  you  look  wearied. 
A  drop  from  yonder  vessel  is  needful  to  recruit  the 
outward  man.  And  for  the  prayer,  the  sisters  will 
expect  it ;  and  their  souls  are  longing  for  the  outpour 
ing  of  the  Spirit.  I  was  intending  to  open  my  own 
mouth  with  such  words  as  are  given  to  my  poor  igno 
rance,  but "  — 

Fanshawe  was  here  about  to  interrupt  this  address, 
which  proceeded  on  the  supposition,  arising  from  his 
black  dress  and  thoughtful  countenance,  that  he  was  a 


204  FANSHAWtf, 

clergyman.  But  one  of  the  females  now  approached 
him,  and  intimated  that  the  sister  of  the  deceased  was 
desirous  of  the  benefit  of  his  conversation.  He  would 
have  returned  a  negative  to  this  request,  but,  looking 
towards  the  afflicted  woman,  he  saw  her  withdraw  her 
handkerchief  from  her  eyes,  and  cast  a  brief  but  pene 
trating  and  most  intelligent  glance  upon  him.  He  im 
mediately  expressed  his  readiness  to  offer  such  consola 
tion  as  might  be  in  his  power. 

"  And  in  the  mean  time,"  observed  the  lay-preacher, 
"  I  will  give  the  sisters  to  expect  a  word  of  prayer  and 
exhortation,  either  from  you  or  from  myself." 

These  words  were  lost  upon  the  supposed  clergyman, 
who  was  already  at  the  side  of  the  mourner.  The  fe 
males  withdrew  out  of  ear-shot  to  give  place  to  a  more 
legitimate  comforter  than  themselves. 

"*'  What  know  you  respecting  my  purpose  ?  "  inquired 
Fanshawe,  bending  towards  her. 

The  woman  gave  a  groan  —  the  usual  result  of  all 
efforts  at  consolation  —  for  the  edification  of  the  com 
pany,  and  then  replied  in  a  whisper,  which  reached 
only  the  ear  for  which  it  was  intended.  "  I  know 
whom  you  come  to  seek :  I  can  direct  you  to  them. 
Speak  low,  for  God's  sake !  "  she  continued,  observing 
that  Fanshawe  was  about  to  utter  an  exclamation. 
She  then  resumed  her  groans  with  greater  zeal  than 
before. 

"  Where  —  where  are  they  ?  "  asked  the  student,  in 
a  whisper  which  all  his  efforts  could  scarcely  keep  be^ 
low  his  breath.  "  I  adjure  you  to  tell  me." 

"  And,  if  I  should,  how  am  I  like  to  be  bettered  by 
it?  "  inquired  the  old  woman, her  speech  still  preceded 
and  followed  by  a  groan. 

"  O  God  !     The  auri  sacra  fames  !  "  thought  Fan- 


FANSHAWE.  205 

shawe  with  a  sickening  heart,  looking  at  the  motion 
less  corpse  upon  the  bed,  and  then  at  the  wretched  be 
ing,  whom  the  course  of  nature,  in  comparatively  a 
moment  of  time,  would  reduce  to  the  same  condition. 

He  whispered  again,  however,  putting  his  purse 
into  the  hag's  hand.  "Take  this.  Make  your  own 
terms  when  they  are  discovered.  Only  tell  me  where 
I  must  seek  them  —  and  speedily,  or  it  may  be  too 
late." 

44 1  am  a  poor  woman,  and  am  afflicted,"  said  she, 
taking  the  purse,  unseen  by  any  who  were  in  the  room. 
"  It  is  little  that  worldly  goods  can  do  for  me,  and  not 
long  can  I  enjoy  them."  And  here  she  was  delivered 
of  a  louder  and  a  more  heartfelt  groan  than  ever.  She 
then  continued :  "  Follow  the  path  behind  the  cottage, 
that  leads  to  the  river-side.  Walk  along  the  foot  of 
the  rock,  and  search  for  them  near  the  water-spout. 
Keep  a  slow  pace  till  you  are  out  of  sight,"  she  added, 
as  the  student  started  to  his  feet. 

The  guests  of  the  cottage  did  not  attempt  to  oppose 
Fanshawe's  progress,  when  they  saw  him  take  the  path 
towards  the  forest,  imagining,  probably,  that  he  was 
retiring  for  the  purpose  of  secret  prayer.  But  the  old 
woman  laughed  behind  the  handkerchief  with  which 
she  veiled  her  face. 

"  Take  heed  to  your  steps,  boy,"  she  muttered  *,  "  for 
they  are  leading  you  whence  you  will  not  return. 
Death,  too,  for  the  slayer.  Be  it  so." 

Fanshawe,  in  the  mean  while,  contrived  to  discover, 
and  for  a  while  to  retain,  the  narrow  and  winding 
path  that  led  to  the  river-side.  But  it  was  originally 
no  more  than  a  track,  by  which  the  cattle  belonging 
to  the  cottage  went  down  to  their  watering-place,  and 
by  these  four-footed  passengers  it  had  long  been  de- 


206  FANS II A  WE. 

serted.  The  fern-bushes,  therefore,  had  grown  over 
it ;  and  in  several  places  trees  of  considerable  size  had 
shot  up  in  the  midst.  These  difficulties  could  scarcely 
have  been  surmounted  by  the  utmost  caution ;  and  as 
Fanshawe's  thoughts  were  too  deeply  fixed  upon  the 
end  to  pay  a  due  regard  to  the  means,  he  soon  became 
desperately  bewildered  both  as  to  the  locality  of  the 
river  and  of  the  cottage.  Had  he  known,  however,  in 
which  direction  to  seek  the  latter,  he  would  not,  prob 
ably,  have  turned  back ;  not  that  he  was  infected  by 
any  chivalrous  desire  to  finish  the  adventure  alone, 
but  because  he  would  expect  little  assistance  from 
those  he  had  left  there.  Yet  he  could  not  but  wonder 
—  though  he  had  not  in  his  first  eagerness  taken  no 
tice  of  it  —  at  the  anxiety  of  the  old  woman  that  he 
should  proceed  singly,  and  without  the  knowledge  of 
her  guests,  on  the  search.  He  nevertheless  continued 
to  wander  on,  —  pausing  often  to  listen  for  the  rush  of 
the  river,  and  then  starting  forward  with  fresh  rapid 
ity,  to  rid  himself  of  the  sting  of  his  own  thoughts, 
which  became  painfully  intense  when  undisturbed  by 
bodily  motion.  His  way  was  now  frequently  inter 
rupted  by  rocks,  that  thrust  their  huge  gray  heads 
from  the  ground,  compelling  him  to  turn  aside,  and 
thus  depriving  him,  fortunately,  perhaps,  of  all  re 
maining  idea  of  the  direction  he  had  intended  to 
pursue. 

Thus  he  went  on,  his  head  turned  back,  and  taking 
little  heed  to  his  footsteps,  when,  perceiving  that  he 
trod  upon  a  smooth,  level  rock,  he  looked  forward, 
and  found  himself  almost  on  the  utmost  verge  of  a 
precipice. 

After  the  throbbing  of  the  heart  that  followed  this 
narrow  escape  had  subsided,  he  stood  gazing  down 


FANSHAWE.  207 

where  the  sunbeams  slept  so  pleasantly  at  the  roots  of 
the  tall  old  trees,  with  whose  highest  tops  he  was  upon 
a  level.  Suddenly  he  seemed  to  hear  voices  —  one 
well  -  remembered  voice  —  ascending  from  beneath  ; 
and,  approaching  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  saw  at  its 
base  the  two  whom  he  sought. 

He  saw  and  interpreted  Ellen's  look  and  attitude  of 
entreaty,  though  the  words  with  which  she  sought  to 
soften  the  ruthless  heart  of  her  guide  became  inaudi 
ble  ere  they  reached  the  height  where  Fanshawe  stood. 
He  felt  that  Heaven  had  sent  him  thither,  at  the  mo 
ment  of  her  utmost  need,  to  be  the  preserver  of  all 
that  was  dear  to  him ;  and  he  paused  only  to  consider 
the  mode  in  which  her  deliverance  was  to  be  effected. 
Life  he  would  have  laid  down  willingly,  exultingly : 
his  only  care  wras,  that  the  sacrifice  should  not  be  in 
vain. 

At  length,  when  Ellen  fell  upon  her  knees,  he  lifted 
a  small  fragment  of  rock,  and  threw  it  down  the  cliff. 
It  struck  so  near  the  pair,  that  it  immediately  drewr 
the  attention  of  both. 

AVhen  the  betrayer,  at  the  instant  in  which  he  had 
almost  defied  the  power  of  the  Omnipotent  to  bring 
help  to  Ellen,  became  aware  of  Fanshawe's  presence, 
his  hardihood  failed  him  for  a  time,  and  his  knees  ac 
tually  tottered  beneath  him.  There  was  something 
awful,  to  his  apprehension,  in  the  slight  form  that 
stood  so  far  above  him,  like  a  being  from  another 
sphere,  looking  down  upon  his  wickedness.  But  his 
half  -  superstitious  dread  endured  only  a  moment's 
space  ;  and  then,  mustering  the  courage  that  in  a  thou 
sand  dangers  had  not  deserted  him,  he  prepared  to  re 
venge  the  intrusion  by  which  Fanshawre  had  a  second 
time  interrupted  his  designs. 


208  FANSHA  WE. 

"  By  Heaven,  I  will  cast  him  clown  at  her  feet !  "  he 
muttered  through  his  closed  teeth.  "  There  shall  be 
no  form  nor  likeness  of  man  left  in  him.  Then  let 
him  rise  up,  if  he  is  able,  and  defend  her." 

Thus  resolving,  and  overlooking  all  hazard  in  his 
eager  hatred  and  desire  for  vengeance,  he  began  a  des 
perate  attempt  to  ascend  the  cliff.  The  space  which 
only  had  hitherto  been  deemed  accessible  was  quickly 
passed  ;  and  in  a  moment  more  he  was  half-way  up  the 
precipice,  clinging  to  trees,  shrubs,  and  projecting  por 
tions  of  the  rock,  and  escaping  through  hazards  which 
seemed  to  menace  inevitable  destruction. 

Fanshawe,  as  he  watched  his  upward  progress, 
deemed  that  every  step  would  be  his  last ;  but  when 
he  perceived  that  more  than  half,  and  apparently  the 
most  difficult  part,  of  the  ascent  was  surmounted,  his 
opinion  changed.  His  courage,  however,  did  not  fail 
him  as  the  moment  of  need  drew  nigh.  His  spirits 
rose  buoyantly ;  his  limbs  seemed  to  grow  firm  and 
strong ;  and  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  pre 
pared  for  the  death-struggle  which  would  follow  the 
success  of  his  enemy's  attempt. 

But  that  attempt  was  not  successful.  When  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  summit,  the  adventurer  grasped  at  a 
twig  too  slenderly  rooted  to  sustain  his  weight.  It 
gave  way  in  his  hand,  and  he  fell  backward  down  the 
precipice.  His  head  struck  against  the  less  perpendic 
ular  part  of  the  rock,  whence  the  body  rolled  heavily 
down  to  the  detached  fragment,  of  which  mention  has 
heretofore  been  made.  There  was  no  life  left  in  nim. 
With  all  the  passions  of  hell  alive  in  his  heart,  he  had 
met  the  fate  that  he  intended  for  Fanshawe. 

The  student  paused  not  then  to  shudder  at  the ''sud 
den  and  awful  overthrow  of  his  enemy ;  for  he 


FANSHAWE.  209 

that  Ellen  lay  motionless  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  She 
had  indeed  fainted  at  the  moment  she  became  aware 
of  her  deliverer's  presence ;  and  no  stronger  proof 
could  she  have  given  of  her  firm  reliance  upon  his  pro 
tection. 

Fanshawe  was  not  deterred  by  the  danger,  of  which 
he  had  just  received  so  fearful  an  evidence,  from  at 
tempting  to  descend  to  her  assistance  ;  and,  whether 
owing  to  his  advantage  in  lightness  of  frame,  or  to  su 
perior  caution,  he  arrived  safely  at  the  base  of  the  prec 
ipice. 

He  lifted  the  motionless  form  of  Ellen  in  his  arms, 
and,  resting  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  gazed  on 
her  cheek  of  lily  paleness  with  a  joy,  a  triumph,  that 
rose  almost  to  madness.  It  contained  no  mixture  of 
hope ;  it  had  no  reference  to  the  future  :  it  was  the 
perfect  bliss  of  a  moment,  —  an  insulated  point  of 
happiness.  He  bent  over  her,  and  pressed  a  kiss  — 
the  first,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  the  last  —  on  her 
pale  lips  ;  then,  bearing  her  to  the  fountain,  he  sprin 
kled  its  wraters  profusely  over  her  face,  neck,  and 
bosom.  She  at  length  opened  her  eyes,  slowly  and 
heavily  ;  but  her  mind  was  evidently  wandering,  till 
Fanshawe  spoke. 

"  Fear  not,  Ellen  :  you  are  safe,"  he  said. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  arm,  which  was 
thrown  over  his  shoulder,  involuntarily  tightened  its 
embrace,  telling  him,  by  that  mute  motion,  with  how 
firm  a  trust  she  confided  in  him.  But,  as  a  fuller 
sense  of  her  situation  returned,  she  raised  herself  to 
her  feet,  though  still  retaining  the  support  of  his  arm. 
It  was  singular,  that,  although  her  insensibility  had 
commenced  before  the  fall  of  her  guide,  she  turned 
away  her  eyes,  as  if  instinctively,  from  the  spot  where 

VOL.    XL  14 


210  FANS  HA  WE. 

the  mangled  body  lay ;  nor  did  she  inquire  of  Fan- 
shawe  the  manner  of  her  deliverance. 

"  Let  us  begone  from  this  place,"  she  said  in  faint, 
low  accents,  and  with  an  inward  shudder. 

They  walked  along  the  precipice,  seeking  some  pas 
sage  by  which  they  might  gain  its  summit,  and  at 
length  arrived  at  that  by  which  Ellen  and  her  guide 
had  descended.  Chance  —  for  neither  Ellen  nor  Fan- 
shawe  could  have  discovered  the  path  —  led  them,  af 
ter  but  little  wandering,  to  the  cottage.  A  messenger 
was  sent  forward  to  the  town  to  inform  Dr.  Melmoth 
of  the  recovery  of  his  ward ;  and  the  intelligence  thus 
received  had  interrupted  Edward  Walcott's  conversa 
tion  with  the  seaman. 

It  would  have  been  impossible,  in  the  mangled  re 
mains  of  Ellen's  guide,  to  discover  the  son  of  the 
Widow  Butler,  except  from  the  evidence  of  her  sister, 
who  became,  by  his  death,  the  sole  inheritrix  of  the 
cottage.  The  history  of  this  evil  and  unfortunate  man 
must  be  comprised  within  very  narrow  limits.  A 
harsh  father,  and  his  own  untamable  disposition,  had 
driven  him  from  home  in  his  boyhood  ;  and  chance 
had  made  him  the  temporary  companion  of  Hugh 
Crombie.  After  two  years  of  wandering,  when  in  a 
foreign  country  and  in  circumstances  of  utmost  need, 
he  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  Langton.  The  mer 
chant  took  his  young  countryman  under  his  protec 
tion,  afforded  him  advantages  of  education,  and,  as  his 
capacity  was  above  mediocrity,  gradually  trusted  him 
in  many  affairs  of  importance.  During  this  period, 
there  was  no  evidence  of  dishonesty  on  his  part.  On 
the  contrary,  he  manifested  a  zeal  for  Mr.  Langton's 
interest,  and  a  respect  for  his  person,  that  proved  his 
strong  sense  of  the  benefits  he  had  received.  But  he 


FANSHA  WE.  211 

unfortunately  fell  into  certain  youthful  indiscretions, 
which,  if  not  entirely  pardonable,  might  have  been 
palliated  by  many  considerations  that  would  have  oc 
curred  to  a  merciful  man.  Mr.  Langton's  justice, 
however,  was  seldom  tempered  by  mercy ;  and,  on  this 
occasion,  he  shut  the  door  of  repentance  against  his 
erring  protege,  and  left  him  in  a  situation  not  less 
desperate  than  that  from  which  he  had  relieved  him. 
The  goodness  and  the  nobleness,  of  which  his  heart 
was  not  destitute,  turned,  from  that  time,  wholly  to 
evil ;  and  he  became  irrecoverably  ruined  and  irre- 
claimably  depraved.  His  wandering  life  had  led  him, 
shortly  before  the  period  of  this  tale,  to  his  native 
country.  Here  the  erroneous  intelligence  of  Mr. 
Langton's  death  had  reached  him,  and  suggested  the 
scheme,  which  circumstances  seemed  to  render  prac 
ticable,  but  the  fatal  termination  of  which  has  been 
related. 

The  body  was  buried  where  it  had  fallen,  close  by 
the  huge,  gray,  moss-grown  fragment  of  rock,  —  a 
monument  on  which  centuries  can  work  little  change. 
The  eighty  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  death  of 
the  widow's  son  have,  however,  been  sufficient  to  ob 
literate  an  inscription,  which  some  one  was  at  the 
pains  to  cut  in  the  smooth  surface  of  the  stone.  Traces 
of  letters  are  still  discernible ;  but  the  writer's  many 
efforts  could  never  discover  a  connected  meaning. 
The  grave,  also,  is  overgrown  with  fern-bushes,  and 
sunk  to  a  level  with  the  surrounding  soil.  But  the 
legend,  though  my  version  of  it  may  be  forgotten,  will 
long  be  traditionary  in  that  lonely  spot,  and  give  to 
the  rock  and  the  precipice  and  the  fountain  an  inter 
est  thrilling  to  the  bosom  of  the  romantic  wanderer. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Sitting  then  in  shelter  shady, 
To  observe  and  mark  his  mone- 
Suddenly  I  saw  a  lady 
Hasting  to  him  all  alone, 
Clad  in  maiden-white  and  green, 
Whom  I  judged  the  Forest  Queen." 

THE  WOODMAN'S  BEAK. 

DURING  several  weeks  succeeding  her  danger  and 
deliverance,  Ellen  Langton  was  confined  to  her  cham 
ber  by  illness,  iesulting  from  the  agitation  she  had  en 
dured.  Her  father  embraced,  the  earliest  opportunity 
to  express  his  deep  gratitude  to  Fanshawe  for  the  in 
estimable  service  he  had  rendered,  and  to  intimate  a 
desire  to  requite  it  to  the  utmost  of  his  power.  He 
had  understood  that  the  student's  circumstances  were 
not  prosperous,  and,  with  the  feeling  of  one  who  was 
habituated  to  give  and  receive  a  quid  pro  quo,  he 
would  have  rejoiced  to  share  his  abundance  with  the 
deliverer  of  his  daughter.  But  Fansh awe's  flushed 
brow  and  haughty  eye,  when  he  perceived  the  thought 
that  was  stirring  in  Mr.  Langton' s  mind,  sufficiently 
proved  to  the  discerning  merchant  that  money  was 
not,  in  the  present  instance,  a  circulating  medium. 
His  penetration,  in  fact,  very  soon  informed  him  of 
the  motives  by  which  the  young  man  had  been  actu 
ated  in  risking  his  life  for  Ellen  Langton  ;  but  he 
made  no  allusion  to  the  subject,  concealing  his  inten 
tions,  if  any  he  had,  in  his  own  bosom. 

During  Ellen's  illness,  Edward  Walcott  had  mani 
fested  the  deepest  anxiety  respecting  her:  he  had 


FANSHAWE.  213 

wandered  around  and  within  the  house,  like  a  restless 
ghost,  informing  himself  of    the  slightest  fluctuation 
in  her  health,  and  thereby  graduating  his  happiness 
or  misery.     He  was  at  length  informed  that  her  con 
valescence  had  so  far  progressed,  that,  on  the  succeed 
ing  day,  she  would  venture  below.     From  that  time 
Edward's  visits  to  Dr.  Melmoth's  mansion  were  relin 
quished.    His  cheek  grew  pale  and  his  eye  lost  its  merry 
light ;  but  he  resolutely  kept  himself  a  banished  man. 
Multifarious  were  the  conjectures  to  which  this  course 
of  conduct  gave  rise  ;  but  Ellen  understood  and  ap 
proved  his  motives.     The  maiden  must  have  been  far 
more  blind  than  ever  woman  was  in  such  a  matter,  if 
the  late  events  had  not  convinced  her  of  Fanshawe's 
devoted  attachment ;  and  she  saw  that  Edward  AVal- 
cott,  feeling  the  superior,  the  irresistible  strength  of 
his   rival's   claim,  had   retired  from  the  field.     Fan- 
shawe,  however,  discovered  no  intention  to  pursue  his 
advantage.     He  paid  her  no  voluntary  visit,  and  even 
declined  an  invitation  to  tea,  with  which  Mrs.  Mel- 
moth,  after  extensive  preparations,  had  favored  him. 
He  seemed  to  have  resumed  all  the  habits  of  seclu 
sion  by  which  he  was  distinguished  previous  to  his 
acquaintance  with  Ellen,  except  that  he  still  took  his 
sunset  walk  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  he  stayed  his  footsteps 
by  the  old  leafless  oak  which  had  witnessed  Ellen's 
first  meeting  with  the  angler.  Here  he  mused  upon 
the  circumstances  that  had  resulted  from  that  event, 
and  upon  the  rights  and  privileges  (for  he  was  well 
aware  of  them  all)  which  those  circumstances  had 
given  him.  Perhaps  the  loveliness  of  the  scene  and 
the  recollections  connected  with  it,  perhaps  the  warm 
and  mellow  sunset,  perhaps  a  temporary  weakness  in 


214  FANSHA  WE. 

himself,  had  softened  his  feelings,  and  shaken  the 
firmness  of  his  resolution,  to  leave  Ellen  to  be  happy 
with  his  rival.  His  strong  affections  rose  up  against 
his  reason,  whispering  that  bliss  —  on  earth  and  in 
heaven,  through  time  and  eternity  —  might  yet  be 
his  lot  with  her.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  the 
flood  of  momentary  joy  which  the  bare  admission  of 
such  a  possibility  sent  through  his  frame ;  and,  just 
when  the  tide  was  highest  in  his  heart,  a  soft  little 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  own,  and,  starting,  he  beheld 
Ellen  at  his  side. 

Her  illness,  since  the  commencement  of  which  Fan- 
shawe  had  not  seen  her,  had  wrought  a  considerable, 
but  not  a  disadvantageous,  change  in  her  appearance. 
She  was  paler  and  thinner ;  her  countenance  was  more 
intellectual,  more  spiritual ;  and  a  spirit  did  the  stu 
dent  almost  deem  her,  appearing  so  suddenly  in  that 
solitude.  There  was  a  quick  vibration  of  the  delicate 
blood  in  her  cheek,  yet  never  brightening  to  the  glow 
of  perfect  health ;  a  tear  was  glittering  on  each  of 
her  long,  dark  eyelashes;  and  there  was  a  gentle 
tremor  through  all  her  frame,  which  compelled  her, 
for  a  little  space,  to  support  herself  against  the  oak. 
Fanshawe's  first  impulse  was  to  address  her  in  words 
of  rapturous  delight ;  but  he  checked  himself,  and  at 
tempted  —  vainly  indeed  —  to  clothe  his  voice  in  tones 
of  calm  courtesy.  His  remark  merely  expressed  pleas 
ure  at  her  restoration  to  health ;  and  Ellen's  low  and 
indistinct  reply  had  as  little  relation  to  the  feelings 
that  agitated  her. 

"  Yet  I  fear,"  continued  Faiishawe,  recovering  a  de 
gree  of  composure,  and  desirous  of  assigning  a  motive 
(which  he  felt  was  not  the  true  one)  for  Ellen's  agita 
tion,  —  "I  fear  that  your  walk  has  extended  too'f ai 
for  yotir  strength." 


FANSHA  WE.  215 

"  It  would  Lave  borne  me  farther  with  such  a  mo 
tive,"  she  replied,  still  trembling,  —  4'to  express  my 
gratitude  to  my  preserver." 

"  It  was  needless,  Ellen,  it  was  needless ;  for  the 
deed  brought  with  it  its  own  reward,"  exclaimed  Fan- 
shawe,  with  a  vehemence  that  he  could  not  repress. 
"  It  was  dangerous,  for  " — 

Here  he  interrupted  himself,  and  turned  his  face 
away. 

"  And  wherefore  was  it  dangerous?  "  inquired  Ellen, 
laying  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm  ;  for  he  seemed 
about  to  leave  her. 

"  Because  you  have  a  tender  and  generous  heart, 
and  I  a  weak  one,"  he  replied. 

"  Not  so,"  answered  she,  with  animation.  "  Yours 
is  a  heart  full  of  strength  and  nobleness ;  and  if  it 
have  a  weakness  " — 

"  You  know  well  that  it  has,  Ellen,  —  one  that  has 
swallowed  up  all  its  strength,"  said  Fanshawe.  "Was 
it  wise,  then,  to  tempt  it  thus,  when,  if  it  yield,  the  re 
sult  must  be  your  own  misery?  " 

Ellen  did  not  affect  to  misunderstand  his  meaning. 
On  the  contrary,  with  a  noble  frankness,  she  answered 
to  what  was  implied  rather  than  expressed. 

"  Do  me  not  this  wrong,"  she  said,  blushing,  yet 
earnestly.  "  Can  it  be  misery  ?  Will  it  not  be  hap 
piness  to  form  the  tie  that  shall  connect  you  to  the 
world  ?  to  be  your  guide  —  a  humble  one,  it  is  true, 
but  the  one  of  your  choice  —  to  the  quiet  paths  from 
which  your  proud  and  lonely  thoughts  have  estranged 
you  ?  Oh,  I  know  that  there  will  be  happiness  in  such 
a  lot,  from  these  and  a  thousand  other  sources !  " 

The  animation  with  which  Ellen  spoke,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  a  sense  of  the  singular  course  to  which  her 


216  FANS  ff AWE. 

gratitude  had  impelled  her,  caused  her  beauty  to  grow 
brighter  and  more  enchanting  with  every  word.  And 
when,  as  she  concluded,  she  extended  her  hand  to  Fan- 
shawe,  to  refuse  it  was  like  turning  from  an  angel,  who 
would  have  guided  him  to  heaven.  But,  had  he  been 
capable  of  making  the  woman  he  loved  a  sacrifice  to 
her  own  generosity,  that  act  would  have  rendered  him 
unworthy  of  her.  Yet  the  struggle  was  a  severe  one 
ere  he  could  reply. 

"  You  have  spoken  generously  and  nobly,  Ellen,'' 
he  said.  "I  have  no  way  to  prove  that  I  deserve 
your  generosity,  but  by  refusing  to  take  advantage  of 
it.  Even  if  your  heart  were  yet  untouched,  if  no  be 
ing  more  happily  constituted  than  myself  had  made 
an  impression  there,  even  then,  I  trust,  a  selfish  pas 
sion  would  not  be  stronger  than  my  integrity.  But 
now  " —  He  would  have  proceeded  ;  but  the  firmness 
which  had  hitherto  sustained  him  gave  way.  He 
turned  aside  to  hide  the  tears  which  all  the  pride  of 
his  nature  could  not  restrain,  and  which,  instead  of 
relieving,  added  to  his  anguish.  At  length  he  re 
sumed,  "No,  Ellen,  we  must  part  now  and  forever. 
Your  life  will  be  long  and  happy.  Mine  will  be  short, 
but  not  altogether  wretched,  nor  shorter  than  if  we 
had  never  met.  When  you  hear  that  I  am  in  my 
grave,  do  not  imagine  that  you  have  hastened  me 
thither.  Think  that  you  scattered  bright  dreams 
around  my  pathway,  —  an  ideal  happiness,  that  you 
would  have  sacrificed  your  own  to  realize." 

He  ceased  ;  and  Ellen  felt  that  his  determination 
was  unalterable.  She  could  not  speak ;  but,  taking 
his  hand,  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  they  saw  each 
other  no  more.  Mr.  Langton  and  his  daughter  shortly 
after  returned  to  the  seaport,  which,  for  several  suc 
ceeding  years,  was  their  residence. 


FANSHAWE.  217 

After  Ellen's  departure,  Fanshawe  returned  to  his 
studies  with  the  same  absorbing  ardor  that  had  for 
merly  characterized  him.  His  face  was  as  seldom 
seen  among  the  young  and  gay  ;  the  pure  breeze  and 
the  blessed  sunshine  as  seldom  refreshed  his  pale  and 
weary  brow ;  and  his  lamp  burned  as  constantly  from 
the  first  shade  of  evening  till  the  gray  morning  light 
began  to  dim  its  beams.  Nor  did  he,  as  weak  men 
will,  treasure  up  his  love  in  a  hidden  chamber  of  his 
breast.  He  was  in  reality  the  thoughtful  and  earnest 
student  that  he  seemed.  He  had  exerted  the  whole 
might  of  his  spirit  over  itself,  and  he  was  a  conqueror. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  a  summer  breeze  of  sad  and  gentle 
thoughts  would  sometimes  visit  him  ;  but,  in  these 
brief  memories  of  his  love,  he  did  not  wish  that  it 
should  be  revived,  or  mourn  over  its  event. 

There  were  many  who  felt  an  interest  in  Fanshawe ; 
but  the  influence  of  none  could  prevail  upon  him  to 
lay  aside  the  habits,  mental  and  physical,  by  which 
he  was  bringing  himself  to  the  grave.  His  passage 
thither  was  consequently  rapid,  terminating  just  as 
he  reached  his  twentieth  year.  His  fellow -students 
erected  to  his  memory  a  monument  of  rough-hewn 
granite,  with  a  white  marble  slab  for  the  inscription. 
This  was  borrowed  from  the  grave  of  Xathanael 
Mather,  whom,  in  his  almost  insane  eagerness  for 
knowledge,  and  in  his  early  death,  Fanshawe  resem 
bled. 

THE  ASHES  OF  A  HARD  STUDENT 
AND  A  GOOD  SCHOLAR. 

Many  tears  were  shed  over  his  grave ;  but  the 
thoughtful  and  the  wise,  though  turf  never  covered  a 
nobler  heart,  could  not  lament  that  it  was  so  soon  at 
rest  He  left  a  world  for  which  he  was  unfit ;  and  we 


218  FANS  HA  WE. 

trust,  that,  among  the  innumerable  stars  of  heaven^ 
there  is  one  where  he  has  found  happiness. 

Of  the  other  personages  of  this  tale,  —  Hugh  Crom- 
bie,  being  exposed  to  no  strong  temptations,  lived  and 
died  an  honest  man.  Concerning  Dr.  Melmoth,  it  is 
unnecessary  here  to  speak.  The  reader,  if  he  have 
any  curiosity  upon  the  subject,  is  referred  to  his  Life? 
which,  together  with  several  sermons  and  other  pro 
ductions  of  the  doctor,  was  published  by  his  successor 
in  the  presidency  of  Harley  College,  about  the  year 
1768. 

It  was  not  till  four  years  after  Fanshawe's  death, 
that  Edward  Walcott  was  united  to  Ellen  Langton. 
Their  future  lives  were  uncommonly  happy.  Ellen's 
gentle,  almost  imperceptible,  but  powerful  influence 
drew  her  husband  away  from  the  passions  and  pur 
suits  that  would  have  interfered  with  domestic  feli 
city;  and  he  never  regretted  the  worldly  distinction  of 
which  she  thus  deprived  him.  Theirs  was  a  long  life 
of  calm  and  quiet  bliss ;  and  what  matters  it,  that, 
except  in  these  pages,  they  have  left  no  name  behind 
them  ? 


SEPTIMIUS 


OR, 

THE  ELIXIR   OF  LIFE. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

THE  existence  of  this  story,  posthumously  published, 
was  not  known  to  any  one  but  Hawthorne  himself, 
until  some  time  after  his  death,  when  the  manuscript 
was  found  among  his  papers.  The  preparation  and 
copying  of  his  Note-Books  for  the  press  occupied  the 
most  of  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  available  time  during  the 
interval  from  1864  to  1870;  but  in  the  latter  year, 
having  decided  to  publish  the  unfinished  romance,  she 
began  the  task  of  putting  together  its  loose  sheets  and 
deciphering  the  handwriting,  which,  towards  the  close 
of  Hawthorne's  life,  had  grown  somewhat  obscure  and 
uncertain.  Her  death  occurred  while  she  was  thus  en 
gaged,  and  the  transcription  was  completed  by  her 
daughters.  The  book  was  then  issued  simultaneously 
in  America  and  England,  in  1871. 

Although  "  Septimius  Felton  "  appeared  so  much 
later  than  "  The  Marble  Faun,"  it  was  conceived  and, 
in  another  form,  begun  before  the  Italian  romance  had 
presented  itself  to  the  author's  mind.  The  legend  of  a 
bloody  foot  leaving  its  imprint  where  it  passed,  which 
figures  so  prominently  in  the  following  fiction,  was 
brought  to  Hawthorne's  notice  on  a  visit  to  SrnithelTs 
Hall,  Lancashire,  England.1  Only  five  days  after  hear- 

1  See  English  Note-Books,  April  7,  and  August  25, 1855. 


222  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

ing  of  it,  he  made  a  note  in  his  journal,  referring  to 
"  my  Romance,"  which  had  to  do  with  a  plot  involving 
the  affairs  of  a  family  established  both  in  England 
and  New  England;  and  it  seems  likely  that  he  had 
already  begun  to  associate  the  bloody  footstep  with 
this  project.  What  is  extraordinary,  and  must  be  re 
garded  as  an  unaccountable  coincidence  —  one  of  the 
strange  premonitions  of  genius  —  is  that  in  1850,  be 
fore  he  had  ever  been  to  England  and  before  he  knew 
of  the  existence  of  Smithell's  Hall,  he  had  jotted  down 
in  his  Note-Book,  written  in  America,  this  suggestion  : 
"The  print  in  blood  of  a  naked  foot  to  be  traced 
through  the  street  of  a  town."  The  idea  of  treating 
in  fiction  the  attempt  to  renew  youth  or  to  attain  an 
earthly  immortality  had  engaged  his  fancy  quite  early 
in  his  career,  as  we  discover  from  "  Doctor  Heideg 
ger's  Experiment,"  in  the  "  Twice- Told  Tales."  In 
1840,  also,  we  find  in  the  journal :  "  If  a  man  were 
sure  of  living  forever,  he  would  not  care  about  his  off 
spring."  The  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse  "  supply 
another  link  in  this  train  of  reflection  ;  for  "  The  Vir 
tuoso's  Collection  "  includes  some  of  the  elixir  vitaB 
"  in  an  antique  sepulchral  urn."  The  narrator  there 
represents  himself  as  refusing  to  quaff  it.  "  '  No ;  I 
desire  not  an  earthly  immortality,'  said  I.  '  Were 
man  to  live  longer  on  earth,  the  spiritual  would  die 
out  of  him.  .  .  .  There  is  a  celestial  something  within 
us  that  requires,  after  a  certain  time,  the  atmosphere 
of  heaven  to  preserve  it  from  ruin.' "  On  the  other 
hand,  just  before  hearing,  for  the  first  time,  the  legend 
of  Smithell's  Hall,  he  wrote  in  his  English  journal :  — 
"  God  himself  cannot  compensate  us  for  being  born 
for  any  period  short  of  eternity.  All  the  misery  en 
dured  here  constitutes  a  claim  for  another  life, 'and 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  223 

still  more  all  the  happiness  ;  because  all  true  happi 
ness  involves  something  more  than  the  earth  owns, 
and  needs  something  more  than  a  mortal  capacity  for 
the  enjoyment  of  it."  It  is  sufficiently  clear  that  he 
had  meditated  on  the  main  theme  of  "  Septiinius  Fel- 
ton,"  at  intervals,  for  many  years. 

When,  in  August,  1855,  Hawthorne  went  by  invita 
tion  to  SmithelFs  Hall,  the  lady  of  the  manor,  on  his 
taking  leave,  asked  him  "  to  write  a  ghost-story  for  her 
house  ;  "  and  he  observes  in  his  notes,  u  the  legend  is 
a  good  one."  Three  years  afterwards,  in  1858,  on  the 
eve  of  departure  for  France  and  Italy,  he  began  to 
sketch  the  outline  of  a  romance  laid  in  England,  and 
having  for  its  hero  an  American  who  goes  thither  to 
assert  his  inherited  rights  in  an  old  manor-house  pos 
sessing  the  peculiarity  of  a  supposed  bloody  foot-print 
on  the  threshold-stone.  This  sketch,  which  appears  in 
the  present  edition  as  "  The  Ancestral  Footstep,"  was 
in  journal  form,  the  story  continuing  from  day  to 
day,  with  the  dates  attached.  There  remains  also  the 
manuscript  without  date,  recently  edited  under  the 
title  "  Dr.  Grimshawe's  Secret,"  which  bears  a  resem 
blance  to  some  particulars  in  "  Septimius  Felton." 
Nothing  further  seems  to  have  been  done  in  this  di 
rection  by  the  author  until  he  had  been  to  Italy,  had 
written  "  The  Marble  Faun,"  and  again  returned  to 
The  Wayside,  his  home  at  Concord.  It  was  then,  in 
1861,  that  he  took  up  once  more  the  "Romance  of 
Immortality,"  as  the  sub-title  of  the  English  edition 
calls  it.  "  I  have  not  found  it  possible,"  he  wrote  to 
Mr.  Bridge,  who  remained  his  confidant,  "  to  occupy 
my  mind  with  its  usual  trash  and  nonsense  during 
these  anxious  times;  but  as  the  autumn  advances,  I 
find  myself  sitting  down  at  my  desk  and  blotting  sue- 


224  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

cessive  sheets  of  paper  as  of  yore."  Concerning  this 
place,  The  Wayside,  he  had  said  in  a  letter  to  George 
William  Curtis,  in  1852  :  "  I  know  nothing  of  the  his 
tory  of  the  house,  except  Thoreau's  telling  me  that  it 
was  inhabited  a  generation  or  two  ago  by  a  man  who 
believed  he  should  never  die."  It  was  this  legendary 
personage  whom  he  now  proceeded  to  revive  and  em 
body  as  Septimius  ;  and  the  scene  of  the  story  was 
placed  at  The  Wayside  itself  and  the  neighboring 
house,  belonging  to  Mr.  Bronson  Alcott,  both  of  which 
stand  at  the  base  of  a  low  ridge  running  beside  the 
Lexington  road,  in  the  village  of  Concord.  Rose  Gar- 
field  is  mentioned  as  living  "  in  a  small  house,  the  site 
of  which  is  still  indicated  by  the  cavity  of  a  cellar,  in 
which  I  this  very  summer  planted  some  sunflowers." 
The  cellar-site  remains  at  this  day  distinctly  visible 
near  the  boundary  of  the  land  formerly  owned  by 
Hawthorne. 

Attention  may  here  perhaps  appropriately  be  called 
to  the  fact  that  some  of  the  ancestors  of  President  Gar- 
field  settled  at  Weston,  not  many  miles  from  Concord, 
and  that  the  name  is  still  borne  by  dwellers  in  the 
vicinity.  One  of  the  last  letters  written  by  the  Pres 
ident  was  an  acceptance  of  an  invitation  to  visit  Con 
cord  ;  and  it  was  his  intention  to  journey  thither  by 
carriage,  incognito,  from  Boston,  passing  through  the 
scenes  where  those  ancestors  had  lived,  and  entering 
the  village  by  the  old  Lexington  road,  on  which  The 
Wayside  faces.  It  is  an  interesting  coincidence  that 
Hawthorne  should  have  chosen  for  his  first  heroine's 
name,  either  intentionally  or  through  unconscious  as 
sociation,  this  one  which  belonged  to  the  region. 

The  house  upon  which  the  story  was  thus  centred, 
and  where  it  was  written,  had  been  a  farm-house, 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  225 

bought  and  for  a  time  occupied  by  Hawthorne  pre 
vious  to  his  departure  for  Europe.  On  coming  back 
to  it,  he  made  some  additions  to  the  old  wooden  struc 
ture,  and  caused  to  be  built  a  low  tower,  which  rose 
above  the  irregular  roofs  of  the  older  and  newer  por 
tions,  thus  supplying  him  with  a  study  lifted  out  of 
reach  of  noise  or  interruption,  and  in  a  slight  degree 
recalling  the  tower  in  which  he  had  taken  so  much 
pleasure  at  the  Villa  Montauto.  The  study  was  ex 
tremely  simple  in  its  appointments,  being  finished 
chiefly  in  stained  wood,  with  a  vaulted  plaster  ceiling, 
and  containing,  besides  a  few  pictures  and  some  plain 
furniture,  a  writing-table,  and  a  shelf  at  which  Haw 
thorne  sometimes  wrote  standing.  A  story  has  gone 
abroad  and  is  widely  believed,  that,  on  mounting  the 
steep  stairs  leading  to  this  study,  he  passed  through  a 
trap-door  and  afterwards  placed  upon  it  the  chair  in 
which  he  sat,  so  that  intrusion  or  interruption  became 
physically  impossible.  It  is  wholly  unfounded.  There 
never  was  any  trap-door,  and  no  precaution  of  the 
kind  described  was  ever  taken.  Immediately  behind 
the  house  the  hill  rises  in  artificial  terraces,  which,  dur 
ing  the  romancer's  residence,  were  grassy  and  planted 
with  fruit-trees.  He  afterwards  had  evergreens  set 
out  there,  and  directed  the  planting  of  other  trees, 
which  still  attest  his  preference  for  thick  verdure. 
The  twelve  acres  running  back  over  the  hill  were 
closely  covered  with  light  woods,  and  across  the  road 
lay  a  level  tract  of  eight  acres  more,  which  included 
a  garden  and  orchard.  From  his  study  Hawthorne 
could  overlook  a  good  part  of  his  modest  domain ;  the 
view  embraced  a  stretch  of  road  lined  with  trees,  wide 
meadows,  and  the  hills  across  the  shallow  valley.  The 
branches  of  trees  rose  on  all  sides  as  if  to  embower 

VOL.  XI.  15 


226  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

the  house,  and  birds  and  bees  flew  about  his  casement, 
through  which  came  the  fresh  perfumes  of  the  woods, 
in  summer. 

In  this  spot  "  Septimius  Felton"  was  written;  but 
the  manuscript,  thrown  aside,  was  mentioned  in  the 
Dedicatory  Preface  to  "Our  Old  Home"  as  an  "abor 
tive  project."  As  will  be  found  explained  in  the  In 
troductory  Notes  to  "  The  Dolliver  Romance "  and 
"  The  Ancestral  Footstep,"  that  phase  of  the  same 
general  design  which  was  developed  in  the  "Dolliver" 
was  intended  to  take  the  place  of  this  unfinished 
sketch,  since  resuscitated. 

G.  P.  L, 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  story  is  the  last  written  by  my 
father.  It  is  printed  as  it  was  found  among  his  man 
uscripts.  I  believe  it  is  a  striking  specimen  of  the 
peculiarities  and  charm  of  his  style,  and  that  it  will 
have  an  added  interest  for  brother  artists,  and  for 
those  who  care  to  study  the  method  of  his  composi 
tion,  from  the  mere  fact  of  its  not  having  received  his 
final  revision.  In  any  case,  I  feel  sure  that  the  reten 
tion  of  the  passages  within  brackets  (e.  g.  p.  253), 
which  show  how  my  father  intended  to  amplify  some 
of  the  descriptions  and  develop  more  fully  one  or  two 
of  the  character  studies,  will  not  be  regretted  by  ap 
preciative  readers.  My  earnest  thanks  are  due  to  Mr. 
Robert  Browning  for  his  kind  assistance  and  advice 
in  interpreting  the  manuscript,  otherwise  so  difficult 
to  me. 

UNA   HAWTHORNE. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON; 

OR,  THE  ELIXIR  OF  LIFE. 


IT  was  a  clay  in  early  spring ;  and  as  that  sweet, 
genial  time  of  year  and  atmosphere  calls  out  tender 
greenness  from  the  ground,  --  beautiful  flowers,  or 
leaves  that  look  beautiful  because  so  long  unseen  un 
der  the  snow  and  decay,  —  so  the  pleasant  air  and 
warmth  had  called  out  three  young  people,  who  sat  on 
a  sunny  hill-side  enjoying  the  warm  day  and  one  an 
other.  For  they  were  all  friends :  two  of  them  young 
men,  and  playmates  from  boyhood ;  the  third,  a  girl, 
who,  two  or  three  years  younger  than  themselves,  had 
been  the  object  of  their  boy-love,  their  little  rustic, 
childish  gallantries,  their  budding  affections  ;  until, 
growing  all  towards  manhood  and  womanhood,  they 
had  ceased  to  talk  about  such  matters,  perhaps  think 
ing  about  them  the  more. 

These  three  young  people  were  neighbors'  children, 
dwelling  in  houses  that  stood  by  the  side  of  the  great 
Lexington  road,  along  a  ridgy  hill  thnt  rose  abruptly 
behind  them,  its  brow  covered  with  a  wood,  and  which 
stretched,  with  one  or  two  breaks  and  interruptions, 
into  the  heart  of  the  village  of  Concord,  the  county 
town.  It  was  in  the  side  of  this  hill  that,  according 
to  tradition,  the  first  settlers  of  the  village  had  bur 
rowed  in  caverns  which  they  had  dug  out  for  their 


230  SEP  TI MI  US  FELTON. 

shelter,  like  swallows  and  woodchucks.  As  its  slope 
was  towards  the  south,  and  its  ridge  and  crowning 
woods  defended  them  from  the  northern  blasts  and 
snow-drifts,  it  was  an  admirable  situation  for  the 
fierce  New  England  winter  ;  and  the  temperature  was 
milder,  by  several  degrees,  along  this  hill-side  than  ori 
the  unprotected  plains,  or  by  the  river,  or  in  any  other 
part  of  Concord.  So  that  here,  during  the  hundred 
years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  first  settlement  of  the 
place,  dwellings  had  successively  risen  close  to  the 
hill's  foot,  and  the  meadow  that  lay  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road  —  a  fertile  tract  —  had  been  cultivated  ; 
and  these  three  young  people  were  the  children's  chil 
dren's  children  of  persons  of  respectability  who  had 
dwelt  there,  —  Rose  Garfield,  in  a  small  house,  the 
site  of  which  is  still  indicated  by  the  cavity  of  a  cel 
lar,  in  which  I  this  very  past  summer  planted  some 
sunflowers  to  thrust  their  great  disks  out  from  the  hol 
low  and  allure  the  bee  and  the  humming-bird  ;  Robert 
Hagburn,  in  a  house  of  somewhat  more  pretension,  a 
hundred  yards  or  so  nearer  to  the  village,  standing 
back  from  the  road  in  the  broader  space  which  the  re 
treating  hill,  cloven  by  a  gap  in  that  place,  afforded ; 
where  some  elms  intervened  between  it  and  the  road, 
offering  a  site  which  some  person  of  a  natural  taste  for 
the  gently  picturesque  had  seized  upon.  Those  same 
elms,  or  their  successors,  still  flung  a  noble  shade  over 
the  same  old  house,  which  the  magic  hand  of  Alcott 
has  improved  by  the  touch  that  throws  grace,  amiable- 
ness,  and  natural  beauty  over  scenes  that  have  little 
pretension  in  themselves. 

Now,  the  other  young  man,  Septimius  Felton,  dwelt 
in  a  small  wooden  house,  then,  I  suppose,  of  some 
score  '  of  years'  standing,  —  a  two-story  house,  gabled 


SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON.  231 

before,  but  with  only  two  rooms  on  a  floor,  crowded 
upon  by  the  hill  behind,  —  a  house  of  thick  walls,  as 
if  the  projector  had  that  sturdy  feeling  of  permanence 
in  life  which  incites  people  to  make  strong  their 
earthly  habitations,  as  if  deluding  themselves  with  the 
idea  that  they  could  still  inhabit  them  ;  in  short,  an  or 
dinary  dwelling  of  a  well-to-do  New  England  farmer, 
such  as  his  race  had  been  for  two  or  three  generations 
past,  although  there  were  traditions  of  ancestors  who 
had  led  lives  of  thought  and  study,  and  possessed  all 
the  erudition  that  the  universities  of  England  could 
bestow.  Whether  any  natural  turn  for  study  had  de 
scended  to  Septimius  from  these  worthies,  or  how  his 
tendencies  came  to  be  different  from  those  of  his  fam 
ily, —  who,  within  the  memory  of  the  neighborhood, 
had  been  content  to  sow  and  reap  the  rich  field  in 
front  of  their  homestead,  —  so  i£  was,  that  Septimius 
had  early  manifested  a  taste  for  study.  By  the  kind 
aid  of  the  good  minister  of  the  town  he  had  been  fitted 
for  college  ;  had  passed  through  Cambridge  by  means 
of  what  little  money  his  father  had  left  him  and  by 
his  own  exertions  in  school-keeping  ;  and  was  now  a 
recently  decorated  baccalaureate,  with,  as  was  under 
stood,  a  purpose  to  devote  himself  to  the  ministry,  un 
der  the  auspices  of  that  reverend  and  good  friend 
whose  support  and  instruction  had  already  stood  him 
in  such  stead. 

Now  here  were  these  young  people,  on  that  beauti 
ful  spring  morning,  sitting  on  the  hill -side,  a  pleas 
ant  spectacle  of  fresh  life,  —  pleasant,  as  if  they  had 
sprouted  like  green  things  under  the  influence  of  the 
warm  sun.  The  girl  was  very  pretty,  a  little  freckled, 
a  little  tanned,  but  with  a  face  that  glimmered  and 
gleamed  with  quick  and  cheerful  expressions ;  a  slen- 


232  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

der  form,  not  very  large,  with  a  quick  grace  in  its 
movements  ;  sunny  hair  that  had  a  tendency  to  curl, 
which  she  probably  favored  at  such  moments  as  her 
household  occupation  left  her ;  a  sociable  and  pleasant 
child,  as  both  of  the  young  men  evidently  thought. 
Robert  Hagburn,  one  might  suppose,  would  have  been 
the  most  to  her  taste ;  a  ruddy,  burly  young  fellow, 
handsome,  and  free  of  manner,  six  feet  high,  famous 
through  the  neighborhood  for  strength  and  athletic 
skill,  the  early  promise  of  what  was  to  be  a  man  fit 
for  all  offices  of  active  rural  life,  and  to  be,  in  mature 
age,  the  selectman,  the  deacon,  the  representative,  the 
colonel.  As  for  Septimius,  let  him  alone  a  moment 
or  two,  and  then  they  would  see  him,  with  his  head 
bent  down,  brooding,  brooding,  his  eyes  fixed  on  some 
chip,  some  stone,  some  common  plant,  any  commonest 
thing,  as  if  it  were  the  clew  and  index  to  some  mys 
tery  ;  and  when,  by  chance  startled  out  of  these  medi 
tations,  he  lifted  his  eyes,  there  would  be  a  kind  of 
perplexity,  a  dissatisfied,  foiled  look  in  them,  as  if  of 
his  speculations  he  found  no  end.  Such  was  now  the 
case,  while  Robert  and  the  girl  were  running  on  with 
a  gay  talk  about  a  serious  subject,  so  that,  gay  as  it 
was,  it  was  interspersed  with  little  thrills  of  fear  on 
the  girl's  part,  of  excitement  on  Robert's.  Their  talk 
was  of  public  trouble. 

"  My  grandfather  says,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  "  that 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  stand  against  old  England, 
because  the  men  are  a  weaker  race  than  he  remembers 
in  his  day,  —  weaker  than  his  father,  who  came  from 
England,  —  and  the  women  slighter  still ;  so  that  we 
are  dwindling  away,  grandfather  thinks ;  only  a  little 
sprightlier,  he  says  sometimes,  looking  at  me." 

"Lighter,  to  be  sure,"  said  Robert  Hagburn;  ^ there 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  233 

is  the  lightness  of  the  Englishwomen  compressed  into 
little  space.  I  have  seen  them  and  know.  And  as  to 
the  men,  Rose,  if  they  have  lost  one  spark  of  courage 
and  strength  that  their  English  forefathers  brought 
from  the  old  land,  —  lost  any  one  good  quality  without 
having  made  it  up  by  as  good  or  better,  —  then,  for 
my  part,  I  don't  want  the  breed  to  exist  any  longer. 
And  this  war,  that  they  say  is  coming  on,  will  be  a 
good  opportunity  to  test  the  matter.  Septimius !  don't 
you  think  so  ?" 

"  Think  what?  "  asked  Septimius,  gravely,  lifting  up 
his  head. 

"  Think !  why,  that  your  countrymen  are  worthy  to 
live/'  said  Robert  Hagburn,  impatiently.  "  For  there 
is  a  question  on  that  point.*' 

"  It  is  hardly  worth  answering  or  considering,"  said 
Septimius,  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  We  live  so 
little  while,  that  (always  setting  aside  the  effect  on  a 
future  existence)  it  is  little  matter  whether  we  live  or 
no." 

"Little  matter !  "  said  Rose,  at  first  bewildered,  then 
laughing,  —  "  little  matter !  when  it  is  such  a  comfort 
to  live,  so  pleasant,  so  sweet !  " 

"  Yes,  and  so  many  things  to  do,"  said  Robert ;  u  to 
make  fields  yield  produce ;  to  be  busy  among  men,  and 
happy  among  the  women-folk;  to  play,  work,  fight, 
and  be  active  in  many  ways." 

"  Yes  ;  but  so  soon  stilled,  before  your  activity  has 
come  to  any  definite  end,"  responded  Septimius,  gloom 
ily.  "  I  doubt,  if  it  had  been  left  to  my  choice,  whether 
I  should  have  taken  existence  on  such  terms  ;  so  much 
trouble  of  preparation  to  live,  and  then  no  life  at  all; 
a  ponderous  beginning,  and  nothing  more." 

"  Do  you  find  faidt  with  Providence,  Septimius  ?  " 


234  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

asked  Rose,  a  feeling  of  solemnity  coming  over  her 
cheerful  and  buoyant  nature.  Then  she  burst  out 
a-laughing.  "  How  grave  he  looks,  Robert ;  as  if  he 
had  lived  two  or  three  lives  already,  and  knew  all 
about  the  value  of  it.  But  I  think  it  was  worth  while 
to  be  born,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  one  such  pleasant 
spring  morning  as  this  ;  and  God  gives  us  many  and 
better  things  when  these  are  past." 

"  We  hope  so,"  said  Septimius,  who  was  again  look 
ing  on  the  ground.  " But  who  knows? " 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  said  Robert  Hagburn,  "You 
have  been  to  college,  and  have  learned,  no  doubt,  a 
great  many  things.  You  are  a  student  of  theology, 
too,  and  have  looked  into  these  matters.  Who  should 
know,  if  not  you  ?  " 

"  Rose  and  you  have  just  as  good  means  of  ascer 
taining  these  points  as  I,"  said  Septimius ;  "  all  the 
certainty  that  can  be  had  lies  on  the  surface,  as  it 
should,  and  equally  accessible  to  every  man  or  woman. 
If  we  try  to  grope  deeper,  we  labor  for  naught,  and 
get  less  wise  while  we  try  to  be  more  so.  If  life  were 
long  enough  to  enable  us  thoroughly  to  sift  these  mat 
ters,  then,  indeed  !  —  but  it  is  so  short !  " 

"Always  this  same  complaint,"  said  Robert.  "Sep 
timius,  how  long  do  you  wish  to  live  ?  " 

"  Forever  !  "  said  Septimius.  "  It  is  none  too  long 
for  all  I  wish  to  know." 

"  Forever  ?  "  exclaimed  Rose,  shivering  doubtfully. 
"  Ah,  there  would  come  many,  many  thoughts,  and 
after  a  while  we  should  want  a  little  rest." 

"Forever?"  said  Robert  Hagburn.  "And  what 
would  the  people  do  who  wish  to  fill  our  places?  You 
are  unfair,  Septimius.  Live  and  let  live !  Turn 
about  1  Give  me  my  seventy  years,  and  let  me  go,  — • 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  235 

my  seventy  years  of  what  this  life  has,  —  toil,  enjoy 
ment,  suffering,  struggle,  fight,  rest,  —  only  let  me 
have  my  share  of  what 's  going,  and  I  shall  be  con 
tent." 

"  Content  with  leaving  everything  at  odd  ends ;  con 
tent  with  being  nothing,  as  you  were  before  !  " 

"  No,  Septimius,  content  with  heaven  at  last,"  said 
Eose,  who  had  come  out  of  her  laughing  mood  into  a 
sweet  seriousness.  "  Oh  dear !  think  what  a  worn  and 
ugly  thing  one  of  these  fresh  little  blades  of  grass 
would  seem  if  it  were  not  to  fade  and  wither  in  its 
time,  after  being  green  in  its  tune." 

"  "Well,  well,  my  pretty  Rose,"  said  Septimius  apart, 
"  an  immortal  weed  is  not  very  lovely  to  think  of,  that 
is  true  ;  but  I  should  be  content  with  one  thing,  and 
that  is  yourself,  if  you  were  immortal,  just  as  you 
are  at  seventeen,  so  fresh,  so  dewy,  so  red-lipped,  so 
golden-haired,  so  gay,  so  frolicsome,  so  gentle." 

"  But  I  am  to  grow  old,  and  to  be  brown  and  wrin 
kled,  gray-haired  and  ugly,"  said  Rose,  rather  sadly, 
as  she  thus  enumerated  the  items  of  her  decay,  "  and 
then  you  would  think  me  all  lost  and  gone.  But  still 
there  might  be  youth  underneath,  for  one  that  really 
loved  me  to  see.  Ah,  Septimius  Feltoii !  such  love  as 
would  see  with  ever-new  eyes  is  the  true  love."  And 
she  ran  away  and  left  him  suddenly,  and  Robert  Hag- 
burn  departing  at  the  same  time,  this  little  knot  of 
three  was  dissolved,  and  Septimius  went  along  the 
wayside  wall,  thoughtfully,  as  was  his  wont,  to  his  own 
dwelling.  He  had  stopped  for  some  moments  on  the 
threshold,  vaguely  enjoying,  it  is  probable,  the  light 
and  warmth  of  the  new  spring  day  and  the  sweet  air, 
which  was  somewhat  unwonted  to  the  young  man,  be 
cause  he  was  accustomed  to  spend  much  of  his  day  in 


236  SEP  Tl  Ml  US  FELT  ON. 

thought  and  study  within  doors,  and,  indeed,  like  most 
studious  young  men,  was  overfond  of  the  fireside,  and 
of  making  life  as  artificial  as  he  could,  by  fireside  heat 
and  lamplight,  in  order  to  suit  it  to  the  artificial,  in 
tellectual,  and  moral  atmosphere  which  he  derived 
from  books,  instead  of  living  healthfully  in  the  open 
air,  and  among  his  fellow  -  beings.  Still  he  felt  the 
pleasure  of  being  warmed  through  by  this  natural  heat, 
and,  though  blinking  a  little  from  its  superfluity,  could 
not  but  confess  an  enjoyment  and  cheerfulness  in  this 
flood  of  morning  light  that  came  aslant  the  hill-side. 
While  he  thus  stood,  he  felt  a  friendly  hand  laid  upon 
his  shoulder,  and,  looking  up,  there  was  the  minister  of 
the  village,  the  old  friend  of  Septimius,  to  whose  ad 
vice  and  aid  it  was  owing  that  Septimius  had  followed 
his  instincts  by  going  to  college,  instead  of  spending 
a  thwarted  and  dissatisfied  life  in  the  field  that  fronted 
the  house.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  or  little  be 
yond,  of  a  sagacious,  kindly  aspect ;  the  experience,  the 
lifelong,  intimate  acquaintance  with  many  concerns  of 
his  people  being  more  apparent  in  him  than  the  schol 
arship  for  which  he  had  been  early  distinguished.  A 
tanned  man,  like  one  who  labored  in  his  own  grounds 
occasionally ;  a  man  of  homely,  plain  address,  which, 
when  occasion  called  for  it,  he  could  readily  exchange 
for  the  polished  manner  of  one  who  had  seen  a  more 
refined  world  than  this  about  him. 

"  Well,  Septimius,"  said  the  minister,  kindly,  "  have 
you  yet  come  to  any  conclusion  about  the  subject  of 
which  we  have  been  talking  ?  " 

"  Only  so  far,  sir,"  replied  Septimius,  "  that  I  find 
myself  every  day  less  inclined  to  take  up  the  profes 
sion  which  I  have  had  in  view  so  many  years.  I  do 
not  think  myself  fit  for  the  sacred  desk.'* 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  237 

"  Surely  not ;  no  one  is,"  replied  the  clergyman ; 
"  but  if  1  may  trust  my  own  judgment,  you  have  at 
least  many  of  the  intellectual  qualifications  that  should 
adapt  you  to  it.  There  is  something  of  the  Puritan 
character  in  you,  Septimius,  derived  from  hcly  men 
among  your  ancestors ;  as,  for  instance,  a  deep,  brood 
ing  turn,  such  as  befits  that  heavy  brow  ;  a  disposition 
to  meditate  on  things  hidden  ;  a  turn  for  meditative 
inquiry,  —  all  these  things,  with  grace  to  boot,  mark 
you  as  the  germ  of  a  man  who  might  do  God  service. 
Your  reputation  as  a  scholar  stands  high  at  college. 
You  have  not  a  turn  for  worldly  business." 

"•  All,  but,  sir,"  said  Septimius,  casting  down  his 
heavy  brows,  "  I  lack  something  within." 

"  Faith,  perhaps,"  replied  the  minister ;  "  at  least, 
you  think  so." 

"  Cannot  I  know  it  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  Scarcely,  just  now,"  said  his  friend.  "  Study  for 
the  ministry  ;  bind  your  thoughts  to  it ;  pray  ;  ask  a 
belief,  and  you  will  soon  find  you  have  it.  Doubts 
may  occasionally  press  in  ;  and  it  is  so  with  every 
clergyman.  But  your  prevailing  mood  will  be  faith." 

"  It  has  seemed  to  me,"  observed  Septimius,  "  that 
it  is  not  the  prevailing  mood,  the  most  common  one, 
that  is  to  be  trusted.  This  is  habit,  formality,  the 
shallow  covering  which  we  close  over  what  is  real,  and 
seldom  suffer  to  be  blown  aside.  But  it  is  the  snake- 
like  doubt  that  thrusts  out  its  head,  which  gives  us 
a  glimpse  of  reality.  Surely  such  moments  are  a  hun 
dred  times  as  real  as  the  dull,  quiet  moments  of  faith 
or  what  you  call  such." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  minister ;  "  yet  to 
a  youth  of  your  frame  of  character,  of  your  ability  1 
will  say,  and  your  requisition  for  something  profound 


238  SEP1MT1US  FELT  ON. 

in  the  grounds  of  your  belief,  it  is  not  unusual  to  meet 
this  trouble.  Men  like  you  have  to  fight  for  their 
faith.  They  fight  in  the  first  place  to  win  it,  and  ever 
afterwards  to  hold  it.  The  Devil  tilts  with  them  daily 
and  often  seems  to  win." 

"  Yes  ;  but,"  replied  Septimius,  "  he  takes  deadly 
weapons  now.  If  he  meet  me  with  the  cold  pure  steel 
of  a  spiritual  argument,  I  might  win  or  lose,  and  still 
not  feel  that  all  was  lost ;  but  he  takes,  as  it  were,  a 
great  clod  of  earth,  massive  rocks  and  mud,  soil  and 
dirt,  and  flings  it  at  me  overwhelmingly ;  so  that  I  am 
buried  under  it." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  said  the  minister.  "  Tell  me  more 
plainly." 

"  May  it  not  be  possible,"  asked  Septimius,  "  to 
have  too  profound  a  sense  of  the  marvellous  contriv 
ance  and  adaptation  of  this  material  world  to  require 
or  believe  in  anything  spiritual?  How  wonderful  it 
is  to  see  it  all  alive  on  this  spring  day,  all  growing, 
budding  !  Do  we  exhaust  it  in  our  little  life  ?  Not 
so  ;  not  in  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  lives.  The  whole 
race  of  man,  living  from  the  beginning  of  time,  have 
not,  in  all  their  number  and  multiplicity  and  in  all 
their  duration,  come  in  the  least  to  know  the  world 
they  live  in  !  And  how  is  this  rich  world  thrown 
away  upon  us,  because  we  live  in  it  such  a  moment ! 
What  mortal  work  has  ever  been  done  since  the 
world  began  !  Because  we  have  no  time.  No  lesson 
is  taught.  We  are  snatched  away  from  our  study 
before  we  have  learned  the  alphabet.  As  the  world 
now  exists,  I  confess  it  to  you  frankly,  my  dear  pas 
tor  and  instructor,  it  seems  to  me  all  a  failure,  be 
cause  we  do  not  live  long  enough." 

"  But  the  lesson  is  carried  on  in  another  state 'of 
being!" 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  239 

"  Not  the  lesson  that  we  begin  here,"  said  Septim- 
ius.  i;  We  might  as  well  train  a  child  in  a  primeval 
forest,  to  teach  him  how  to  live  in  a  European  court. 
No,  the  fall  of  man,  which  Scripture  tells  us  of,  seems 
to  me  to  have  its  operation  in  this  grievous  shorten 
ing  of  earthly  existence,  so  that  our  life  here  at  all  is 
grown  ridiculous." 

"  Well,  Septimius,"  replied  the  minister,  sadly,  yet 
not  as  one  shocked  by  what  he  had  never  heard  before, 
"  I  must  leave  you  to  struggle  through  this  form  of 
unbelief  as  best  you  may,  knowing  that  it  is  by  your 
own  efforts  that  you  must  come  to  the  other  side  of 
this  slough.  We  will  talk  further  another  time.  You 
are  getting  worn  out,  my  young  friend,  with  much 
study  and  anxiety.  It  were  well  for  you  to  live  more, 
for  the  present,  in  this  earthly  life  that  you  prize  so 
highly.  Cannot  you  interest  yourself  in  the  state  of 
this  country,  in  this  coming  strife,  the  voice  of  which 
now  sounds  so  hoarsely  and  so  near  us  ?  Come  out  of 
your  thoughts  and  breathe  another  air." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Do,"  said  the  minister,  extending  his  hand  to  him, 
"  and  in  'a  little  time  you  will  find  the  change." 

He  shook  the  young  man's  hand  kindly,  and  took 
his  leave,  while  Septimius  entered  his  house,  and  turn 
ing  to  the  right  sat  down  in  his  study,  where,  before 
the  fireplace,  stood  the  table  with  books  and  papers. 
On  the  shelves  around  the  low-studded  walls  were  more 
books,  few  in  number  but  of  an  erudite  appearance, 
many  of  them  having  descended  to  him  from  learned 
ancestors,  and  having  been  brought  to  light  by  himself 
after  long  lying  in  dusty  closets  ;  works  of  good  and 
learned  divines,  whose  wisdom  he  had  happened,  by 
help  of  the  Devil,  to  turn  to  mischief,  reading  them  by 


240  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

the  light  of  hell-fire.  For,  indeed,  Septimrus  had  but 
given  the  clergyman  the  merest  partial  glimpse  of  his 
state  of  mind.  He  was  not  a  new  beginner  in  doubt ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
never  been  other  than  a  doubter  and  questioner,  even 
in  his  boyhood  ;  believing  nothing,  although  a  thin 
veil  of  reverence  had  kept  him  from  questioning  some 
things.  And  now  the  new,  strange  thought  of  the  suf 
ficiency  of  the  world  for  man,  if  man  were  only  suffi 
cient  for  that,  kept  recurring  to  him ;  and  with  it  came 
a  certain  sense,  which  he  had  been  conscious  of  before, 
that  he,  at  least,  might  never  die.  The  feeling  was 
not  peculiar  to  Septimius.  It  is  an  instinct,  the  mean 
ing  of  which  is  mistaken.  We  have  strongly  within 
us  the  sense  of  an  undying  principle,  and  we  transfer 
that  true  sense  to  this  life  and  to  the  body,  instead  of 
interpreting  it  justly  as  the  promise  of  spiritual  im 
mortality. 

So  Septimius  looked  up  out  of  his  thoughts,  and  said 
proudly  :  "  Why  should  I  die  ?  I  cannot  die,  if  wor 
thy  to  live.  What  if  I  should  say  this  moment  that  I 
will  not  die,  not  till  ages  hence,  not  till  the  world  is 
exhausted  ?  Let  other  men  die,  if  they  choose,  or  yield ; 
let  him  that  is  strong  enough  live !  " 

After  this  flush  of  heroic  mood,  however,  the  glow 
subsided,  and  poor  Septimius  spent  the  rest  of  the  day, 
as  was  his  wont,  poring  over  his  books,  in  which  all 
the  meanings  seemed  dead  and  mouldy,  and  like  pressed 
leaves  (some  of  which  dropped  out  of  the  books  as  he 
opened  them),  brown,  brittle,  sapless;  so  even  the 
thoughts,  which  when  the  writers  had  gathered  them 
seemed  to  them  so  brightly  colored  and  full  of  life. 
Then  he  began  to  see  that  there  must  have  been  some 
principle  of  life  left  out  of  the  book,  so  that  these  gath- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  241 

ered  thoughts  lacked  something  that  had  given  them 
their  only  value.  Then  he  suspected  that  the  way 
truly  to  live  and  answer  the  purposes  of  life  was  not 
to  gather  up  thoughts  into  books,  where  they  grew  so 
dry,  but  to  live  and  still  be  going  about,  full  of  green 
wisdom,  ripening  ever,  not  in  maxims  cut  and  dry,  but 
a  wisdom  ready  for  daily  occasions,  like  a  living  foun 
tain  ;  and  that  to  be  this,  it  was  necessary  to  exist 
long  on  earth,  drink  in  all  its  lessons,  and  not  to  die 
on  the  attainment  of  some  smattering  of  truth ;  but  to 
live  all  the  more  for  that ;  and  apply  it  to  mankind 
and  increase  it  thereby. 

Everything  drifted  towards  the  strong,  strange  eddy 
into  which  his  mind  had  been  drawn :  all  his  thoughts 
set  hitherward. 

So  he  sat  brooding  in  his  study  until  the  shrill- 
voiced  old  woman  —  an  aunt,  who  was  his  housekeeper 
and  domestic  ruler  —  called  him  to  dinner,  —  a  frugal 
dinner,  —  and  chided  him  for  seeming  inattentive  to  a 
dish  of  early  dandelions  which  she  had  gathered  for 
him ;  but  yet  tempered  her  severity  with  respect  for 
the  future*  clerical  rank  of  her  nephew,  and  for  his 
already  being  a  bachelor  of  arts.  The  old  woman's 
voice  spoke  outside  of  Septimius,  rambling  away,  and 
he  paying  little  heed,  till  at  last  dinner  was  over,  and 
Septimius  drew  back  his  chair,  about  to  leave  the  table. 

"  Nephew  Septimius,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  you  be 
gan  this  meal  to-day  without  asking  a  blessing,  you 
get  up  from  it  without  giving  thanks,  and  you  soon  to 
be  a  minister  of  the  Word." 

"  God  bless  the  meat,"  replied  Septimius  (by  way 
of  blessing),  "  and  make  it  strengthen  us  for  the  life 
he  means  us  to  bear.  Thank  God  for  our  food,"  he 

VOL.  XI.  16 


242  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

added  (by  way  of  grace),  "  and  may  it  become  a  por 
tion  in  us  of  an  immortal  body." 

"That  sounds  good,  Septimius,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"  All !  you  '11  be  a  mighty  man  in  the  pulpit,  and  wor 
thy  to  keep  up  the  name  of  your  great-grandfather, 
who,  they  say,  made  the  leaves  wither  on  a  tree  with 
the  fierceness  of  his  blast  against  a  sin.  Some  say,  to 
be  sure,  it  was  an  early  frost  that  helped  him." 

"I  never  heard  that  before,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said 
Septimius. 

"I  warrant  you  no,"  replied  his  aunt.  "A  man 
dies,  and  his  greatness  perishes  as  if  it  had  never  been, 
and  people  remember  nothing  of  him  only  when  they 
see  his  gravestone  over  his  old  dry  bones,  and  say  he 
was  a  good  man  in  his  day." 

"  What  truth  there  is  in  Aunt  Keziah's  words ! " 
exclaimed  Septimius.  "And  how  I  hate  the  thought 
and  anticipation  of  that  contemptuous  appreciation  of 
a  man  after  his  death !  Every  living  man  triumphs 
over  every  dead  one,  as  he  lies,  poor  and  helpless, 
under  the  mould,  a  pinch  of  dust,  a  heap  of  bones,  an 
evil  odor !  I  hate  the  thought !  It  shall  not  be  so  !  " 

It  was  strange  how  every  little  incident  thus  brought 
him  back  to  that  one  subject  which  was  taking  so 
strong  hold  of  his  mind;  every  avenue  led  thither 
ward  ;  and  he  took  it  for  an  indication  that  nature  had 
intended,  by  innumerable  ways,  to  point  out  to  us  the 
great  truth  that  death  was  an  alien  misfortune,  a  prod 
igy,  a  monstrosity,  into  which  man  had  only  fallen  by 
defect ;  and  that  even  now,  if  a  man  had  a  reasonable 
portion  of  his  original  strength  in  him,  he  might  ?ive 
forever  and  spurn  death. 

Our  story  is  an  internal  one,  dealing  as  little  as  pos 
sible  with  outward  events,  and  taking  hold  of  these 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOy.  248 

only  where  it  cannot  be  helped,  in  order  by  means  of 
them  to  delineate  the  history  of  a  mind  bewildered  in 
certain  errors.  "We  would  not  willingly,  if  we  could, 
give  a  lively  and  picturesque  surrounding  to  this  de 
lineation,  but  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  advert  to 
the  circumstances  of  the  time  in  which  this  inward 
history  was  passing.  We  will  say,  therefore,  that  that 
night  there  was  a  cry  of  alarm  passing  all  through  the 
succession  of  country  towns  and  rural  communities 
that  lay  around  Boston,  and  dying  away  towards  the 
coast  and  the  wilder  forest  borders.  Horsemen  gal 
loped  past  the  line  of  farm-houses  shouting  alarm  ! 
alarm !  There  were  stories  of  marching  troops  coining 
like  dreams  through  the  midnight.  Around  the  little 
rude  meeting-houses  there  was  here  and  there  the  beat 
of  a  drum,  and  the  assemblage  of  farmers  with  their 
weapons.  So  all  that  night  there  was  marching,  there 
was  mustering,  there  was  trouble ;  and,  on  the  road 
from  Boston,  a  steady  march  of  soldiers'  feet  onward, 
onward  into  the  land  whose  last  warlike  disturbance 
had  been  when  the  red  Indians  trod  it. 

Septimius  heard  it,  and  knew,  like  the  rest,  that  it 
was  the  sound  of  coming  war.  "  Fools  that  men  are ! " 
said  he,  as  he  rose  from  bed  and  looked  out  at  the 
misty  stars ;  "  they  do  not  live  long  enough  to  know 
the  value  and  purport  of  life,  else  they  would  combine 
together  to  live  long,  instead  of  throwing  away  the 
lives  of  thousands  as  they  do.  And  what  matters  a 
little  tyranny  in  so  short  a  life?  What  matters  a 
form  of  government  for  such  ephemeral  creatures  ?  " 

As  morning  brightened,  these  sounds,  this  clamor, 
—  or  something  that  was  in  the  air  and  caused  the 
clamor,  —  grew  so  loud  that  Septimius  seemed  to  feel 
it  even  in  his  solitude.  It  was  in  the  atmosphere,  — 


244  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

storm,  wild  excitement,  a  coming  deed.  Men  hurried 
along  the  usually  lonely  road  in  groups,  with  weapons 
in  their  hands,  —  the  old  fowling-piece  of  seven-foot 
barrel,  with  which  the  Puritans  had  shot  ducks  on  the 
river  and  Walden  Pond ;  the  heavy  harquebus,  which 
perhaps  had  levelled  one  of  King  Philip's  Indians ; 
the  old  King  gun,  that  blazed  away  at  the  French  of 
Louisburg  or  Quebec,  —  hunter,  husbandman,  all  were 
hurrying  each  other.  It  was  a  good  time,  everybody 
felt,  to  be  alive,  a  nearer  kindred,  a  closer  sympathy 
between  man  and  man ;  a  sense  of  the  goodness  of  the 
world,  of  the  sacredness  of  country,  of  the  excellence 
of  life ;  and  yet  its  slight  account  compared  with  any 
truth,  any  principle  ;  the  weighing  of  the  material  and 
ethereal,  and  the  finding  the  former  not  worth  consid 
ering,  when,  nevertheless,  it  had  so  much  to  do  with 
the  settlement  of  the  crisis.  .  The  ennobling  of  brute 
force ;  the  feeling  that  it  had  its  godlike  side  ;  the 
drawing  of  heroic  breath  amid  the  scenes  of  ordinary 
life,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  all  been  transfig 
ured  since  yesterday.  Oh,  high,  heroic,  tremulous  junc 
ture,  when  man  felt  himself  almost  an  angel ;  on  the 
verge  of  doing  deeds  that  outwardly  look  so  fiendish  ! 
Oh,  strange  rapture  of  the  coming  battle !  We  know 
something  of  that  time  now;  we  that  have  seen  the 
muster  of  the  village  soldiery  on  the  meeting-house 
green,  and  at  railway  stations;  and  heard  the  drum 
and  fife,  and  seen  the  farewells ;  seen  the  familiar 
faces  that  we  hardly  knew,  now  that  we  felt  them  to 
be  heroes ;  breathed  higher  breath  for  their  sakes ; 
felt  our  eyes  moistened;  thanked  them  in  our  souls 
for  teaching  us  that  nature  is  yet  capable  of  heroic 
moments ;  felt  how  a  great  impulse  lifts  up  a  people, 
and  every  cold,  passionless,  indifferent  spectator.  — 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  245 

lifts  him  up  into  religion,  and  makes  him  join  in  what 
becomes  an  act  of  devotion,  a  prayer,  when  perhaps  he 
but  half  approves. 

Septimius  could  not  study  on  a  morning  like  this. 
He  tried  to  say  to  himself  that  he  had  nothing  to  do 
with  this  excitement ;  that  his  studious  life  kept  him 
away  from  it ;  that  his  intended  profession  was  that  of 
peace  ;  but  say  what  he  might  to  himself,  there  was  a 
tremor,  a  bubbling  impulse,  a  tingling  in  his  ears,  — 
the  page  that  he  opened  glimmered  and  dazzled  before 
him. 

"  Septimius  !  Septimius  !  "  cried  Aunt  Keziah,  look 
ing  into  the  room,  "  in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  going 
to  sit  here  to-day,  and  the  redcoats  coining  to  burn  the 
house  over  our  heads  ?  Must  I  sweep  you  out  with 
the  broomstick  ?  For  shame,  boy  !  for  shame  !  " 

"  Are  they  coming,  then,  Aunt  Keziah  ? "  asked 
her  nephew.  u  Well,  I  am  not  a  fighting-man." 

'*  Certain  they  are.  They  have  sacked  Lexington, 
and  slain  the  people,  and  burnt  the  meeting-house. 
That  concerns  even  the  parsons  ;  and  you  reckon  your 
self  among  them.  Go  out,  go  out,  I  say,  and  learn 
the  news !  " 

Whether  moved  by  these  exhortations,  or  by  his 
own  stifled  curiosity,  Septimius  did  at  length  issue 
from  his  door,  though  with  that  reluctance  which  ham 
pers  and  impedes  men  whose  current  of  thought  and 
interest  runs  apart  from  that  of  the  world  in  general ; 
but  forth  he  came,  feeling  strangely,  and  yet  with  a 
strong  impulse  to  fling  himself  headlong  into  the 
emotion  of  the  moment.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning, 
spring-like  and  summer -like  at  once.  If  there  had 
been  nothing  else  to  do  or  think  of,  such  a  morning 
was  enough  for  life  only  to  breathe  its  air  and  be  con 
scious  of  its  inspiring  influence. 


246  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Septimius  turned  along  the  road  towards  the  village, 
meaning  to  mingle  with  the  crowd  on  the  green,  and 
there  learn  all  he  could  of  the  rumors  that  vaguely 
filled  the  air,  and  doubtless  were  shaping  themselves 
into  various  forms  of  fiction. 

As  he  passed  the  small  dwelling  of  Rose  Garfield, 
she  stood  on  the  doorstep,  and  bounded  forth  a  little 
Way  to  meet  him,  looking  frightened,  excited,  and  yet 
half  pleased,  but  strangely  pretty  ;  prettier  than  ever 
before,  owing  to  some  hasty  adornment  or  other,  that 
she  would  never  have  succeeded  so  well  in  giving  to 
herself  if  she  had  had  more  time  to  do  it  in. 

"  Septimius  — Mr.  Felton,"  cried  she,  asking  infor 
mation  of  him  who,  of  all  men  in  the  neighborhood, 
knew  nothing  of  the  intelligence  afloat ;  but  it  showed 
a  certain  importance  that  Septimius  had  with  her. 
"  Do  you  really  think  the  redcoats  are  coming  ?  Ah, 
what  shall  we  do  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  But  you  are 
not  going  to  the  village,  too,  and  leave  us  all  alone?" 

"  I  know  not  whether  they  are  coming  or  no,  Hose," 
said  Septimius,  stopping  to  admire  the  young  girl's 
fresh  beauty,  which  made  a  double  stroke  upon  him 
by  her  excitement,  and,  moreover,  made  her  twice  as 
free  with  him  as  ever  she  had  been  before  ;  for  there 
is  nothing  truer  than  that  any  breaking  up  of  the  or 
dinary  state  of  things  is  apt  to  shake  women  out  of 
their  proprieties,  break  down  barriers,  and  bring  them 
into  perilous  proximity  with  the  world.  "Are  you 
alone  here  ?  Had  you  not  better  take  shelter  in  the 
village  ?  " 

"  And  leave  my  poor,  bedridden  grandmother  !  " 
cried  Rose,  angrily.  "  You  know  I  can't,  Septimius. 
But  I  suppose  I  am  in  no  danger.  Go  to  the  village, 
if  you  like.  '  .  ,4.. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  247 

"Where  is  Robert  Hagburn?"  asked  Septimius. 

w  Gone  to  the  village  this  hour  past,  with  his  grand 
father's  old  firelock  on  his  shoulder,"  said  Rose ;  "  he 
was  running  bullets  before  daylight." 

"  Rose,  I  will  stay  with  you,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Oh  gracious,  here  they  coine,  I  'ni  sure !  "  cried 
Rose.  "  Look  yonder  at  the  dust.  Mercy  !  a  man  at 
a  gallop  ! " 

In  fact,  along  the  road,  a  considerable  stretch  of 
which  was  visible,  they  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and 
saw  a  little  cloud  of  dust  approaching  at  the  rate  of  a 
gallop,  and  disclosing,  as  it  drew  near,  a  hatless  coun 
tryman  in  his  shirt  -  sleeves,  who,  bending  over  his 
horse's  neck,  applied  a  cart-whip  lustily  to  the  animal's 
flanks,  so  as  to  incite  him  to  most  unwonted  speed. 
At  the  same  time,  glaring  upon  Rose  and  Septimius, 
he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  shouted  in  a  strange,  high 
tone,  that  communicated  the  tremor  and  excitement  of 
the  shouter  to  each  auditor  :  "  Alarum  !  alarum !  ala 
rum  !  The  redcoats  !  The  redcoats  !  To  arms  !  ala 
rum  !  " 

And  trailing  this  sound  far  wavering  behind  him 
like  a  pennon,  the  eager  horseman  dashed  onward  to 
the  village. 

"  Oh  dear,  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  cried  Rose,  her  eyes 
full  of  tears,  yet  dancing  with  excitement.  "  They  are 
coming  !  they  are  coming  !  I  hear  the  drum  and  fife." 

"I  really  believe  they  are,"  said  Septimius,  his 
cheek  flushing  and  growing  pale,  not  with  fear,  but 
the  inevitable  tremor,  half  painful,  half  pleasurable, 
of  the  moment.  "  Hark  !  there  was  the  shrill  note  of 
a  fife.  Yes,  they  are  coming  !  " 

He  tried  to  persuade  Rose  to  hide  herself  in  the 
house  ;  but  that  young  person  \»  ould  not  be  persuaded 


248  SEP  TI MI  US  FELT  ON. 

to  do  so,  clinging  to  Septimius  in  a  way  that  flattered 
while  it  perplexed  him.  Besides,  with  all  the  girl's 
fright,  she  had  still  a  good  deal  of  courage,  and  much 
curiosity  too,  to  see  what  these  redcoats  were  of  whom 
she  heard  such  terrible  stories. 

"  Well,  well,  Rose,"  said  Septimius  ;  "  I  doubt  not 
we  may  stay  here  without  danger,  —  you,  a  woman, 
and  I,  whose  profession  is  to  be  that  of  peace  and 
good-will  to  all  men.  They  cannot,  whatever  is  said 
of  them,  be  on  an  errand  of  massacre.  We  will  stand 
here  quietly ;  and,  seeing  that  we  do  not  fear  them, 
they  will  understand  that  we  mean  them  no  harm." 

They  stood,  accordingly,  a  little  in  front  of  the  door 
by  the  well-curb,  and  soon  they  saw  a  heavy  cloud  of 
dust,  from  amidst  which  shone  bayonets  ;  and  anon,  a 
military  band,  which  had  hitherto  been  silent,  struck 
up,  with  drum  and  fife,  to  which  the  tramp  of  a  thou 
sand  feet  fell  in  regular  order  ;  then  came  the  column, 
moving  massively,  and  the  redcoats  who  seemed  some 
what  wearied  by  a  long  night-march,  dusty,  with  be 
draggled  gaiters,  covered  with  sweat  which  had  run 
down  from  their  powdered  locks.  Nevertheless,  these 
ruddy,  lusty  Englishmen  marched  stoutly,  as  men  that 
needed  only  a  half-hour's  rest,  a  good  breakfast,  and  a 
pot  of  beer  apiece,  to  make  them  ready  to  face  the 
world.  Nor  did  their  faces  look  anywise  rancorous  ; 
but  at  most,  only  heavy,  cloddish,  good-natured,  and 
humane. 

"  O  heavens,  Mr.  Felton  !  "  whispered  Eose,  "  why 
should  we  shoot  these  men,  or  they  us?  they  look  kind, 
if  homely.  Each  of  them  has  a  mother  and  sisters,  I 
suppose,  just  like  our  men." 

"  It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world  that  we  can 
think  of  killing  them,"  said  Septimius.  "  Human,  life 
is  so  precious." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  249 

Just  as  they  were  passing  the  cottage,  a  halt  was 
called  by  the  commanding  officer,  in  order  that  some 
little  rest  might  get  the  troops  into  a  better  condition 
and  give  them  breath  before  entering  the  village, 
where  it  was  important  to  make  as  imposing  a  show  as 
possible.  During  this  brief  stop,  some  of  the  soldiers 
approached  the  well-curb,  near  which  Rose  and  Sep- 
timius  were  standing,  and  let  down  the  bucket  to  sat 
isfy  their  thirst.  A  young  officer,  a  petulant  boy,  ex 
tremely  handsome,  and  of  gay  and  buoyant  deport 
ment,  also  came  up. 

"  Get  me  a  cup,  pretty  one,"  said  he,  patting  Rose's 
cheek  with  great  freedom,  though  it  was  somewhat 
and  indefinitely  short  of  rudeness  ;  "  a  mug,  or  some 
thing  to  drink  out  of,  and  you  shall  have  a  kiss  for 
your  pains." 

"  Stand  off,  sir !  "  said  Septimius,  fiercely ;  "  it  is  a 
coward's  part  to  insult  a  woman." 

. "  I  intend  no  insult  in  this,"  replied  the  handsome 
young  officer,  suddenly  snatching  a  kiss  from  Rose, 
before  she  could  draw  back.  "  And  if  you  think  it  so, 
my  good  friend,  you  had  better  take  your  weapon  and 
get  as  much  satisfaction  as  you  can,  shooting  at  me 
from  behind  a  hedge." 

Before  Septimius  could  reply  or  act,  —  and,  in  truth, 
the  easy  presumption  of  the  young  Englishman  made 
it  difficult  for  him,  an  inexperienced  recluse  as  he  was, 
to  know  what  to  do  or  say,  —  the  drum  beat  a  little 
tap,  recalling  the  soldiers  to  their  rank  and  to  order. 
The  young  officer  hastened  back,  with  a  laughing 
glance  at  Rose,  and  a  light,  contemptuous  look  of  de 
fiance  at  Septimius,  the  drums  rattling  out  in  full  beat, 
and  the  troops  marched  on. 

"  What  impertinence  !  "  said  Rose,  whose  indignant 


250  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

color  made  her  look  pretty  enough  almost  to  excuse 
the  offence. 

It  is  not  easy  to  see  how  Septimius  could  have 
shielded  her  from  the  insult ;  and  yet  he  felt  incon 
ceivably  outraged  and  humiliated  at  the  thought  that 
this  offence  had  occurred  while  Rose  was  under  his 
protection,  and  he  responsible  for  her.  Besides,  some 
how  or  other,  he  was  angry  with  her  for  having  under 
gone  the  wrong,  though  certainly  most  unreasonably ; 
for  the  whole  thing  was  quicker  done  than  said. 

"  You  had  better  go  into  the  house  now,  Rose," 
said  he,  "  and  see  to  your  bedridden  grandmother." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Septimius  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  Perhaps  I  will  house  myself,  also,"  he  replied. 
"  Perhaps  take  yonder  proud  redcoat's  counsel,  and 
shoot  him  behind  a  hedge." 

"  But  not  kill  him  outright ;  I  suppose  he  has  a 
mother  and  a  sweetheart,  the  handsome  young  offi 
cer,"  murmured  Rose  pityingly  to  herself. 

Septimius  went  into  his  house,  and  sat  in  his  study 
for  some  hours,  in  that  unpleasant  state  of  feeling 
which  a  man  of  brooding  thought  is  apt  to  experience 
when  the  world  around  him  is  in  a  state  of  intense  ac 
tion,  which  he  finds  it  impossible  to  sympathize  with. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  stream  rushing  past  him,  by 
which,  even  if  he  plunged  into  the  midst  of  it,  he  could 
not  be  wet.  He  felt  himself  strangely  ajar  with  the 
human  race,  and  would  have  given  much  either  to  be 
in  full  accord  with  it,  or  to  be  separated  from  it  for 
ever. 

"  I  am  dissevered  from  it.  It  is  my  doom  to  be 
only  a  spectator  of  life  ;  to  look  on  as  one  apart  from 
it.  Is  it  not  well,  therefore,  that,  sharing  none  oj  its 
pleasures  and  happiness,  I  should  be  free  of  its  fatali* 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOX.  251 

ties,  its  brevity  ?  How  cold  I  am  now,  while  this 
whirlpool  of  public  feeling  is  eddying  around  me  !  It 
is  as  if  I  had  not  been  born  of  woman  !  " 

Thus  it  was  that,  drawing  wild  inferences  from  phe 
nomena  of  the  mind  and  heart  common  to  people  who, 
by  some  morbid  action  within  themselves,  are  set  ajar 
with  the  world,  Septimius  continued  still  to  come 
round  to  that  strange  idea  of  undyingness  which  had 
recently  taken  possession  of  him.  And  yet  he  was 
wrong  in  thinking  himself  cold,  and  that  he  felt  no 
sympathy  in  the  fever  of  patriotism  that  was  throbbing 
through  his  countrymen.  He  was  restless  as  a  flame  ; 
he  could  not  fix  his  thoughts  upon  his  book ;  he  could 
not  sit  in  his  chair,  but  kept  pacing  to  and  fro,  while 
through  the  open  window  came  noises  to  which  his 
imagination  gave  diverse  interpretation.  Now  it  was 
a  distant  drum ;  now  shouts ;  by  and  by  there  came 
the  rattle  of  musketry,  that  seemed  to  proceed  from 
some  point  more  distant  than  the  village  ;  a  regular 
roll,  then  a  ragged  volley,  then  scattering  shots.  Una 
ble  any  longer  to  preserve  this  unnatural  indifference, 
Septimius  snatched  his  gun,  and,  rushing  out  of  the 
house,  climbed  the  abrupt  hill-side  behind,  whence  he 
coidd  see  a  long  way  towards  the  village,  till  a  slight 
bend  hid  the  uneven  road.  It  was  quite  vacant,  not 
a  passenger  upon  it.  But  there  seemed  to  be  confu 
sion  in  that  direction ;  an  unseen  and  inscrutable  trou 
ble,  blowing  thence  towards  him,  intimated  by  vague 
sounds,  —  by  no  sounds.  Listening  eagerly,  however, 
he  at  last  fancied  a  mustering  sound  of  the  drum ; 
then  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  coming  towards  him ; 
while  in  advance  rode  another  horseman,  the  same 
kind  of  headlong  messenger,  in  appearance,  who  had 
passed  the  house  with  his  ghastly  cry  of  alarum ;  then 


252  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

appeared  scattered  countrymen,  with  guns  in  their 
hands,  straggling  across  fields.  Then  he  caught  sight 
of  the  regular  array  of  British  soldiers,  filling  the 
road  with  their  front,  and  marching  along  as  firmly 
as  ever,  though  at  a  quick  pace,  while  he  fancied  that 
the  officers  looked  watchfully  around.  As  he  looked, 
a  shot  rang  sharp  from  the  hill-side  towards  the  vil 
lage  ;  the  smoke  curled  up,  and  Septimius  saw  a  man 
stagger  and  fall  in  the  midst  of  the  troops.  Septim 
ius  shuddered ;  it  was  so  like  murder  that  he  really 
could  not  tell  the  difference  ;  his  knees  trembled  be 
neath  him ;  his  breath  grew  short,  not  with  terror,  but 
with  some  new  sensation  of  awe. 

Another  shot  or  two  came  almost  simultaneously 
from  the  wooded  height,  but  without  any  effect  that 
Septimius  could  perceive.  Almost  at  the  same  mo 
ment  a  company  of  the  British  soldiers  wheeled  from 
the  main  body,  and,  dashing  out  of  the  road,  climbed 
the  hill,  and  disappeared  into  the  wood  and  shrubbery 
that  veiled  it.  There  were  a  few  straggling  shots,  by 
whom  fired,  or  with  what  effect,  was  invisible,  and 
meanwhile  the  main  body  of  the  enemy  proceeded 
along  the  road.  They  had  now  advanced  so  nigh  that 
Septimius  was  strangely  assailed  by  the  idea  that  he 
might,  with  the  gun  in  his  hand,  fire  right  into  the 
midst  of  them,  and  select  any  man  of  that  now  hostile 
band  to  be  a  victim.  How  strange,  how  strange  it  is, 
this  deep,  wild  passion  that  nature  has  implanted  in  us 
to  be  the  death  of  our  fellow-creatures,  and  which  co 
exists  at  the  same  time  with  horror !  Septimius  lev 
elled  his  weapon,  and  drew  it  up  again  ;  he  marked  a 
mounted  officer,  who  seemed  to  be  in  chief  command, 
whom  he  knew  that  he  could  kill.  But  no  I  he  had 
really  no  such  purpose.  Only  it  was  such  a  tempta* 


SEPTIMUS  F ELTON.  258 

tion.  And  in  a  moment  the  horse  would  leap,  the 
officer  would  fall  and  lie  there  in  the  dust  of  the  road, 
bleeding,  gasping,  breathing  in  spasms,  breathing  no 
more. 

While  the  young  man,  in  these  unusual  circum 
stances,  stood  watching  the  marching  of  the  troops, 
he  heard  the  noise  of  rustling  boughs,  and  the  voices 
of  men,  and  soon  understood  that  the  party,  which  he 
had  seen  separate  itself  from  the  main  body  and  as 
cend  the  hill,  was  now  marching  along  on  the  hill-top, 
the  long  ridge  which,  with  a  gap  or  two,  extended  as 
much  as  a  mile  from  the  tillage.  One  of  these  gaps 
occurred  a  little  way  from  where  Septimius  stood. 
They  were  acting  as  flank  guard,  to  prevent  the  up- 
roused  people  from  coming  so  close  to  the  main  body 
as  to  fire  upon  it.  He  looked  and  saw  that  the  de 
tachment  of  British  was  plunging  down  one  side  of 
this  gap,  with  intent  to  ascend  the  other,  so  that  they 
would  pass  directly  over  the  spot  where  he  stood ;  a 
slight  removal  to  one  side,  among  the  small  bushes, 
would  conceal  him.  He  stepped  aside  accordingly,  and 
from  his  concealment,  not  without  drawing  quicker 
breaths,  beheld  the  party  draw  near.  They  were  more 
intent  upon  the  space  between  them  and  the  main 
body  than  upon  the  dense  thicket  of  birch-trees,  pitch- 
pines,  sumach,  and  dwarf  oaks,  which,  scarcely  vet  be 
ginning  to  bud  into  leaf,  lay  on  the  other  side,  and  in 
which  Septimius  lurked. 

[Describe  how  their  faces  affected  him,  passing  so 
near  ;  how  strange  they  seemed  J\ 

They  had  all  passed,  except  an  officer  who  brought 
up  the  rear,  and  who  had  perhaps  been  attracted  by 
some  slight  motion  that  Septimius  made,  —  some  rustle 
m  the  thicket ;  for  he  stopped,  fixed  his  eyes  piero- 


254  SEPTIMIVS  FELTON. 

ingly  towards  the  spot  where  he  stood,  and  levelled  a 
light  fusil  which  he  carried.  "  Stand  out,  or  I  shoot," 
said  he. 

Not  to  avoid  the  shot,  but  because  his  manhood  felt 
a  call  upon  it  not  to  skulk  in  obscurity  from  an  open 
enemy,  Septimius  at  once  stood  forth,  and  confronted 
the  same  handsome  young  officer  with  whom  those 
fierce  words  had  passed  on  account  of  his  rudeness  to 
Rose  Gar  field.  Septimius' s  fierce  Indian  blood  stirred 
in  him,  and  gave  a  murderous  excitement. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you !  "  said  the  young  officer,  with  a 
haughty  smile.  "  You  meant,  then,  to  take  up  with 
my  hint  of  shooting  at  me  from  behind  a  hedge? 
This  is  better.  Come,  we  have  in  the  first  place  the 
great  quarrel  between  me  a  king's  soldier,  and  you  a 
rebel ;  next  our  private  affair,  on  account  of  yonder 
pretty  girl.  Come,  let  us  take  a  shot  on  either  score ! " 

The  young  officer  was  so  handsome,  so  beautiful,  in 
budding  youth ;  there  was  such  a  free,  gay  petulance 
in  his  manner ;  there  seemed  so  little  of  real  evil  in 
him  ;  he  put  himself  on  equal  ground  with  the  rustic 
Septimius  so  generously,  that  the  latter,  often  so  mor 
bid  and  sullen,  never  felt  a  greater  kindness  for  fellow- 
man  than  at  this  moment  for  this  youth. 

" I  have  no  enmity  towards  you,"  said  he  ;  "go  in 
peace." 

"  No  enmity ! "  replied  the  officer.  "  Then  why  were 
you  here  with  your  gun  amongst  the  shrubbery  ?  But 
I  have  a  mind  to  do  my  first  deed  of  arms  on  you ;  so 
give  up  your  weapon,  and  come  with  me  as  prisoner." 

"  A  prisoner !  "  cried  Septimius,  that  Indian  fierce 
ness  that  was  in  him  arousing  itself,  and  thrusting  up 
its  malign  head  like  a  snake.  "  Never !  If  you  would 
have  me,  you  must  take  my  dead  body." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  255 

"Ah  well,  you  have  pluck  in  you,  I  see,  only  it 
needs  a  considerable  stirring.  Come,  this  is  a  good 
quarrel  of  ours.  Let  us  fight  it  out.  Stand  where 
you  are,  and  I  will  give  the  word  of  command,  Now ; 
ready,  aim,  fire  !  " 

As  the  young  officer  spoke  the  three  last  words,  in 
rapid  succession,  he  and  his  antagonist  brought  theb 
firelocks  to  the  shoulder,  aimed  and  fired.  Septimius, 
felt,  as  it  were,  the  sting  of  a  gadfly  passing  across  his 
temple,  as  the  Englishman's  bullet  grazed  it ;  but,  to 
his  surprise  and  horror  (for  the  whole  thing  scarcely 
seemed  real  to  him),  he  saw  the  officer  give  a  great 
start,  drop  his  fusil,  and  stagger  against  a  tree,  with 
his  hand  to  his  breast.  He  endeavored  to  support 
himself  erect,  but,  failing  in  the  effort,  beckoned  to 
Septimius. 

"  Coine,  my  good  friend,"  said  he,  with  that  play 
ful,  petulant  smile  flitting  over  his  face  again.  "  It  is 
my  first  and  last  fight.  Let  me  down  as  softly  as  you 
can  on  mother  earth,  the  mother  of  both  you  and  me  ; 
so  we  are  brothers  :  and  this  may  be  a  brotherly  act, 
though  it  does  not  look  so,  nor  feel  so.  Ah !  that  was 
a  twinge  indeed  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  exclaimed  Septimius.  "  I  had  no 
thought  of  this,  no  malice  towards  you  in  the  least ! ' 

"  Nor  I  towards  you,"  said  the  young  man.  "  It 
was  boy's  play,  and  the  end  of  it  is  that  I  die  a 
boy,  instead  of  living  forever,  as  perhaps  I  otherwise 
might." 

"  Living  forever !  "  repeated  Septimius,  his  atten 
tion  arrested,  even  at  that  breathless  moment,  by 
words  that  rang  so  strangely  on  what  had  been  his 
brooding  thought. 

"Yes  ;  but  I  have  lost  my  chance,"  said  the  young 


256  *  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON, 

officer.  Then,  as  Septimius  helped  him  to  lie  against 
the  little  hillock  of  a  decayed  and  buried  stump, 
"  Thank  you  ;  thank  you.  If  you  could  only  call 
back  one  of  my  comrades  to  hear  my  dying  words. 
But  I  forgot.  You  have  killed  me,  and  they  would 
take  your  life." 

In  truth,  Septimius  was  so  moved  and  so  astonished, 
that  he  probably  would  have  called  back  the  young 
man's  comrades,  had  it  been  possible  ;  but,  marching 
at  the  swift  rate  of  men  in  peril,  they  had  already 
gone  far  onward,  in  their  passage  through  the  shrul> 
bery  that  had  ceased  to  rustle  behind  them. 

"  Yes ;  I  must  die  here !  "  said  the  young  man,  with 
a  forlorn  expression,  as  of  a  school-boy  far  away  from 
home,  "  and  nobody  to  see  me  now  but  you,  who  have 
killed  me.  Could  you  fetch  me  a  drop  of  water  ?  I 
have  a  great  thirst." 

Septimius,  in  a  dream  of  horror  and  pity,  rushed 
down  the  hill-side ;  the  house  was  empty,  for  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah  had  gone  for  shelter  and  sympathy  to  some  of 
the  neighbors.  He  filled  a  jug  with  cold  water,  and 
hurried  back  to  the  hill-top,  finding  the  young  offi 
cer  looking  paler  and  more  deathlike  within  those  few 
moments. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  enemy  that  was,  my  friend  that 
is,"  murmured  he,  faintly  smiling.  "  Methinks,  next 
to  the  father  and  mother  that  gave  us  birth,  the  next 
most  intimate  relation  must  be  with  the  man  that 
slays  us,  who  introduces  us  to  the  mysterious  world 
to  which  this  is  but  the  portal.  You  and  I  are  singu 
larly  connected,  doubt  it  not,  in  the  scenes  of  the  un 
known  world." 

"  Oh,  believe  me,"  cried  Septimius,  "  I  grieve  for 
you  like  a  brother  !  " 


SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON.  257 

"  I  see  it,  my  clear  friend,"  said  the  young  officer ; 
"  and  though  my  blood  is  on  your  hands.  I  forgive 
you  freely,  if  there  is  anything  to  forgive.  But  I  am 
dying,  and  have  a  few  words  to  say,  which  you  must 
hear.  You  have  slain  me  in  fair  fight,  and  my  spoils, 
according  to  the  rules  and  customs  of  warfare,  belong 
to  the  victor.  Hang  up  my  sword  and  fusil  over  youi 
chimney-place,  and  tell  your  children,  twenty  years 
hence,  how  they  were  won.  My  purse,  keep  it  or  give 
it  to  the  poor.  There  is  something,  here  next  my 
heart,  which  I  would  fain  have  sent  to  the  address 
which  I  will  give  you." 

Septimius,  obeying  his  directions,  took  from  his 
breast  a  miniature  that  hung  round  it ;  but,  on  exam 
ination,  it  proved  that  the  bullet  had  passed  directly 
through  it,  shattering  the  ivory,  so  that  the  woman's 
face  it  represented  was  quite  destroyed. 

"  Ah !  that  is  a  pity,"  said  the  young  man  ;  and  yet 
Septimius  thought  that  there  was  something  light  and 
contemptuous  mingled  with  the  pathos  in  his  tones. 
"Well,  but  send  it;  cause  it  to  be  transmitted,  ac 
cording  to  the  address." 

He  gave  Septimius,  and  made  him  take  down  on  a 
tablet  which  he  had  about  him,  the  name  of  a  hall 
in  one  of  the  midland  counties  of  England. 

"  Ah,  that  old  place,"  said  he,  "  with  its  oaks,  and 
its  lawn,  and  its  park,  and  its  Elizabethan  gables ! 
I  little  thought  I  should  die  here,  so  far  away,  in 
this  barren  Yankee  land.  Where  will  you  bury 
me  ?  " 

As  Septimius  hesitated  to  answer,  the  young  man 
continued  :  "  I  would  like  to  have  lain  in  the  little  old 
church  at  "Whitnash,  which  conies  up  before  me  now, 
with  its  low,  gray  tower,  and  the  old  yew-tree  in  front, 


258  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

hollow  with  age,  and  the  village  clustering  about  it, 
with  its  thatched  houses.  I  would  be  loath  to  lie  in 
one  of  your  Yankee  graveyards,  for  I  have  a  distaste 
for  them,  —  though  I  love  you,  my  slayer.  Bury  me 
here,  on  this  very  spot.  A  soldier  lies  best  where  he 
falls." 

"  Here,  in  secret  ?  "  exclaimed  Septimius. 

"  Yes ;  there  is  no  consecration  in  your  Puritan 
burial-grounds,"  said  the  dying  youth,  some  of  that 
queer  narrowness  of  English  Churchism  coming  into 
his  mind.  "  So  bury  me  here,  in  my  soldier's  dress. 
Ah !  and  my  watch !  I  have  done  with  time,  and  you, 
perhaps,  have  a  long  lease  of  it ;  so  take  it,  not  as^ 
spoil,  but  as  my  parting  gift.  And  that  reminds  me 
of  one  other  thing.  Open  that  pocket-book  which  you 
have  in  your  hand." 

Septimius  did  so,  and  by  the  officer's  direction  took 
from  one  of  its  compartments  a  folded  paper,  closely 
written  in  a  crabbed  hand ;  it  was  considerably  worn 
in  the  outer  folds,  but  not  within.  There  was  also  a 
small  silver  key  in  the  pocket-book. 

"  I  leave  it  with  you,"  said  the  officer ;  "  it  was 
given  me  by  an  uncle,  a  learned  man  of  science,  who 
intended  me  great  good  by  what  he  there  wrote.  Reap 
the  profit,  if  you  can.  Sooth  to  say,  I  never  read  be 
yond  the  first  lines  of  the  paper." 

Septimius  was  surprised,  or  deeply  impressed,  to  see 
that  through  this  paper,  as  well  as  through  the  min 
iature,  had  gone  his  fatal  bullet,  —  straight  through 
the  midst ;  and  some  of  the  young  man's  blood,  sat 
urating  his  dress,  had  wet  the  paper  all  over.  He 
hardly  thought  himself  likely  to  derive  any  good  from 
what  it  had  cost  a  human  life,  taken  (however  un- 
criminally)  by  his  own  hands,  to  obtain. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  259 

"  Is  there  anything  more  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 
asked  he,  with  genuine  sympathy  and  sorrow,  as  he 
knelt  by  his  fallen  foe's  side. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  I  believe,"  said  he.  "There 
was  one  thing  I  might  have  confessed ;  if  there  were 
a  holy  man  here,  I  might  have  confessed,  and  asked 
his  prayers ;  for  though  I  have  lived  few  years,  it  has 
been  long  enough  to  do  a  great  wrong.  But  I  will 
try  to  pray  in  my  secret  soul.  Turn  my  face  towards 
the  trunk  of  the  tree,  for  I  have  taken  my  last  look  at 
the  world.  There,  let  me  be  now." 

Septimius  did  as  the  young  man  requested,  and  then 
stood  leaning  against  one  of  the  neighboring  pines, 
watching  his  victim  with  a  tender  concern  that  made 
him  feel  as  if  the  convulsive  throes  that  passed 
through  his  frame  were  felt  equally  in  his  own. 
There  was  a  murmuring  from  the  youth's  lips  which 
seemed  to  Septimius  swift,  soft,  and  melancholy,  like 
the  voice  of  a  child  when  it  has  some  naughtiness  to 
confess  to  its  mother  at  bedtime ;  contrite,  pleading, 
yet  trusting.  So  it  continued  for  a  few  minutes ;  then 
there  was  a  sudden  start  and  struggle,  as  if  he  were 
striving  to  rise ;  his  eyes  met  those  of  Septimius  with 
a  wild,  troubled  gaze,  but  as  the  latter  caught  him  in 
his  arms,  he  was  dead.  Septimius  laid  the  body  softly 
down  on  the  leaf-strewn  earth,  and  tried,  as  he  had 
heard  was  the  custom  with  the  dead,  to  compose  the 
features  distorted  by  the  dying  agony.  He  then  flung 
himself  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance,  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  reflections  suggested  by  the  strange 
occurrences  of  the  last  hour. 

He  had  taken  a  human  life  ;  and,  however  the  cir 
cumstances  might  excuse  him,  —  might  make  the  thing 
even  something  praiseworthy,  and  that  would  be  called 


260  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

patriotic,  —  still,  it  was  not  at  once  that  a  fresh  conn 
try  youth  could  see  anything  but  horror  in  the  blood 
with  which  his  hand  was  stained.  It  seemed  so  dread 
ful  to  have  reduced  this  gay,  animated,  beautiful  be 
ing  to  a  lump  of  dead  flesh  for  the  flies  to  settle  upon, 
and  which  in  a  few  hours  would  begin  to  decay  ;  which 
must  be  put  forthwith  into  the  earth,  lest  it  should  be 
a  horror  to  men's  eyes ;  that  delicious  beauty  for  wo 
man  to  love  ;  that  strength  and  courage  to  make  him 
famous  among  men,  —  all  come  to  nothing;  all  prob 
abilities  of  life  in  one  so  gifted ;  the  renown,  the 
position,  the  pleasures,  the  profits,  the  keen  ecstatic 
joy,  —  this  never  could  be  made  up,  —  all  ended 
quite  ;  for  the  dark  doubt  descended  upon  Septimius, 
that,  because  of  the  very  fitness  that  was  in  this  youth 
to  enjoy  this  world,  so  much  the  less  chance  was  there 
of  his  being  fit  for  any  other  world.  What  could  it 
do  for  him  there,  —  this  beautiful  grace  and  elegance 
of  feature,  —  where  there  was  no  form,  nothing  tangi 
ble  nor  visible  ?  what  good  that  readiness  and  aptness 
for  associating  with  all  created  things,  doing  his  part, 
acting,  enjoying,  when,  under  the  changed  conditions 
of  another  state  of  being,  all  this  adaptedness  would 
fail  ?  Had  he  been  gifted  with  permanence  on  earth, 
there  could  not  have  been  a  more  admirable  creature 
than  this  young  man ;  but  as  his  fate  had  turned  out, 
he  was  a  mere  grub,  an  illusion,  something  that  na 
ture  had  held  out  in  mockery,  and  then  withdrawn.  A 
weed  might  grow  from  his  dust  now ;  that  little  spot 
on  the  barren  hill -top,  where  he  had  desired  to  be 
buried,  would  be  greener  for  some  years  to  come,  and 
that  was  all  the  difference.  Septimius  could  not  get 
beyond  the  earthiness ;  his  feeling  was  as  if,  by  an  act 
of  violence,  he  had  forever  cv  s  off  a  happy  human*  ex« 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  261 

istence.  And  such  was  his  own  love  of  life  and  cling 
ing  to  it,  peculiar  to  dark,  sombre  natures,  and  which 
lighter  and  gayer  ones  can  never  know,  that  he  shud 
dered  at  his  deed,  and  at  himself,  and  could  with  diffi 
culty  bear  to  be  alone  with  the  corpse  of  his  victim, 
—  trembled  at  the  thought  of  turning  his  face  towards 
him. 

Yet  he  did  so,  because  he  could  not  endure  the  im 
agination  that  the  dead  youth  was  turning  his  eyes 
towards  him  as  he  lay  ;  so  he  came  and  stood  beside 
him,  looking  down  into  his  white,  upturned  face.  But 
it  was  wonderful !  What  a  change  had  come  over  it 
since,  only  a  few  moments  ago,  he  looked  at  that  death- 
contorted  countenance  !  Now  there  was  a  high  and 
sweet  expression  upon  it,  of  great  joy  and  surprise, 
and  yet  a  quietude  diffused  throughout,  as  if  the  peace 
being  so  very  great  was  what  had  surprised  him.  The 
expression  was  like  a  light  gleaming  and  glowing 
within  him.  Septimius  had  often,  at  a  certain  space 
of  time  after  sunset,  looking  westward,  seen  a  living 
radiance  in  the  sky,  —  the  last  light  of  the  dead  day 
that  seemed  just  the  counterpart  of  this  death-light  in 
the  young  man's  face.  It  was  as  if  the  youth  were 
just  at  the  gate  of  heaven,  which,  swinging  softly 
open,  let  the  inconceivable  glory  of  the  blessed  city 
shine  upon  his  face,  and  kindle  it  up  with  gentle,  un- 
disturbing  astonishment  and  purest  joy.  It  was  an 
expression  contrived  by  God's  providence  to  comfort ; 
to  overcome  all  the  dark  auguries  that  the  physical 
ugliness  of  death  inevitably  creates,  and  to  prove  by 
the  divine  glory  on  the  face,  that  the  ugliness  is  a  de 
lusion.  It  was  as  if  the  dead  man  himself  showed  his 
face  out  of  the  sky,  with  heaven's  blessing  on  it,  and 
bade  the  afflicted  be  of  good  cheer,  and  believe  in  im 
mortality. 


262  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Septimius  remembered  the  young  man's  injunctions 
to  bury  him  there,  on  the  hill,  without  uncovering  the 
body  ;  and  though  it  seemed  a  sin  and  shame  to  cover 
up  that  beautiful  body  with  earth  of  the  grave,  and 
give  it  to  the  worm,  yet  he  resolved  to  obey. 

Be  it  confessed  that,  beautiful  as  the  dead  form 
looked,  and  guiltless  as  Septimius  must  be  held  in 
causing  his  death,  still  he  felt  as  if  he  should  be  eased 
when  it  was  under  the  ground.  He  hastened  down 
to  the  house,  and  brought  up  a  shovel  and  a  pickaxe, 
and  began  his  unwonted  task  of  grave-digging,  delv 
ing  earnestly  a  deep  pit,  sometimes  pausing  in  his  toil, 
while  the  sweat-drops  poured  from  him,  to  look  at  the 
beautiful  clay  that  was  to  occupy  it.  Sometimes  he 
paused,  too,  to  listen  to  the  shots  that  pealed  in  the 
far  distance,  towards  the  east,  whither  the  battle  had 
long  since  rolled  out  of  reach  and  almost  out  of  hear 
ing.  It  seemed  to  have  gathered  about  itself  the 
whole  life  of  the  land,  attending  it  along  its  bloody 
course  in  a  struggling  throng  of  shouting,  shooting 
men,  so  still  and  solitary  was  everything  left  behind 
it.  It  seemed  the  very  midland  solitude  of  the  world 
where  Septimius  was  delving  at  the  grave.  He  and 
his  dead  were  alone  together,  and  he  was  going  to  put 
the  body  under  the  sod,  and  be  quite  alone. 

The  grave  was  now  deep,  and  Septimius  was  stoop 
ing  down  into  its  depths  among  dirt  and  pebbles,  lev 
elling  off  the  bottom,  which  he  considered  to  be  pro 
found  enough  to  hide  the  young  man's  mystery  for 
ever,  when  a  voice  spoke  above  him ;  a  solemn,  quiet 
voice,  which  he  knew  well. 

"  Septimius !  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  minister. 

"  I  have  slain  a  man  in  fair  fight,"  answered  he, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  263 

"  and  am  about  to  bury  him  as  lie  requested.  I  am 
glad  you  are  come.  You,  reverend  sir,  can  fitly  say 
a  prayer  at  his  obsequies.  I  am  glad  for  my  own 
sake ;  for  it  is  very  lonely  and  terrible  to  be  here." 

He  climbed  out  of  the  grave,  and,  in  reply  to  the 
minister's  inquiries,  communicated  to  him  the  events 
of  the  morning,  and  the  youth's  strange  wish  to  be 
buried  here,  without  having  his  remains  subjected  to 
the  hands  of  those  who  would  prepare  it  for  the  grave. 
The  minister  hesitated. 

"  At  an  ordinary  time,"  said  he,  "  such  a  singular 
request  would  of  course  have  to  be  refused.  Your  own 
safety,  the  good  and  wise  rules  that  make  it  necessary 
that  all  things  relating  to  death  and  burial  should  be 
done  publicly  and  in  order,  would  forbid  it." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Septiinius ;  "  but,  it  may  be,  scores 
of  men  will  fall  to-day,  and  be  flung  into  hasty  graves 
without  funeral  rites ;  without  its  ever  being  known, 
perhaps,  what  mother  has  lost  her  son.  I  cannot  but 
think  that  I  ought  to  perform  the  dying  request  of  the 
youth  whom  I  have  slain.  He  trusted  in  me  not  to 
uncover  his  body  myself,  nor  to  betray  it  to  the  hands 
of  others." 

"  A  singular  request,"  said  the  good  minister,  gaz 
ing  with  deep  interest  at  the  beautiful  dead  face,  and 
graceful,  slender,  manly  figure.  "  What  could  have 
been  its  motive  ?  But  no  matter.  I  think,  Septiniius, 
that  you  are  bound  to  obey  his  request;  indeed,  hav 
ing  promised  him,  nothing  short  of  an  impossibility 
should  prevent  your  keeping  your  faith.  Let  us  lose 
no  time,  then." 

"With  few  but  deeply  solemn  rites  the  young  stran 
ger  was  laid  by  the  minister  and  the  youth  who  slew 
him  in  his  grave.  A  prayer  was  made,  and  then  Sep. 


264  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

timius,  gathering  some  branches  and  twigs,  spread  them 
over  the  face  that  was  turned  upward  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pit,  into  which  the  sun  gleamed  downward,  throw 
ing  its  rays  so  as  almost  to  touch  it.  The  twigs  par 
tially  hid  it,  but  still  its  white  shone  through.  Then 
the  minister  threw  a  handful  of  earth  upon  it,  and, 
accustomed  as  he  was  to  burials,  tears  fell  from  his 
eyes  along  with  the  mould. 

"  It  is  sad,"  said  he,  "  this  poor  young  man,  coming 
from  opulence,  110  doubt,  a  dear  English  home,  to  die 
here  for  no  end,  one  of  the  first-fruits  of  a  bloody  war, 
—  so  much  privately  sacrificed.  But  let  him  rest,  Sep- 
timius.  I  am  sorry  that  he  fell  by  your  hand,  though 
it  involves  no  shadow  of  a  crime.  But  death  is  a  thing 
too  serious  not  to  melt  into  the  nature  of  a  man  like 
you." 

"  It  does  not  weigh  upon  my  conscience,  I  think," 
said  Septimius;  "though  I  cannot  but  feel  sorrow, 
and  wish  my  hand  were  as  clean  as  yesterday.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  dreadful  thing  to  take  human  life." 

"  It  is  a  most  serious  thing,"  replied  the  minister ; 
"  but  perhaps  we  are  apt  to  over-estimate  the  impor 
tance  of  death  at  any  particular  moment.  If  the  ques 
tion  were  whether  to  die  or  to  live  forever,  then,  in 
deed,  scarcely  anything  should  justify  the  putting  a 
fellow-creature  to  death.  But  since  it  only  shortens 
his  earthly  life,  and  brings  a  little  forward  a  change 
which,  since  God  permits  it,  is,  we  may  conclude,  as 
fit  to  take  place  then  as  at  any  other  time,  it  alters 
the  case.  I  often  think  that  there  are  many  things 
that  occur  to  us  in  our  daily  life,  many  unknown  cri 
ses,  that  are  more  important  to  us  than  this  mysteri 
ous  circumstance  of  death,  which  we  deem  the  most 
important  of  all.  All  we  understand  of  it  is,  that  it 


SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON.  265 

takes  the  dead  person  away  from  our  knowledge  of 
him,  which,  while  we  live  with  him,  is  so  very  scanty." 

u  You  estimate  at  nothing,  it  seems,  his  earthly  life, 
which  might  have  been  so  happy." 

"  At  next  to  nothing,"  said  the  minister ;  "  since, 
as  I  have  observed,  it  must,  at  any  rate,  have  closed  so 
soon." 

Septimius  thought  of  what  the  young  man,  in  his 
last  moments,  had  said  of  his  prospect  or  opportunity 
of  living  a  life  of  interminable  length,  and  which  pros 
pect  he  had  bequeathed  to  himself.  But  of  this  he  did 
not  speak  to  the  minister,  being,  indeed,  ashamed  to 
have  it  supposed  that  he  would  put  any  serious  weight 
on  such  a  bequest,  although  it  might  be  that  the  dark 
enterprise  of  his  nature  had  secretly  seized  upon  this 
idea,  and,  though  yet  sane  enough  to  be  influenced  by 
a  fear  of  ridicule,  was  busy  incorporating  it  with  his 
thoughts. 

So  Septimius  smoothed  down  the  young  stranger's 
earthy  bed,  and  returned  to  his  home,  where  he  hung 
up  the  sword  over  the  mantel-piece  in  his  study,  and 
hung  the  gold  watch,  too,  on  a  nail,  —  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  had  possession  of  such  a  thing.  Nor  did  he 
now  feel  altogether  at  ease  in  his  mind  about  keeping- 
it,  —  the  time-measurer  of  one  whose  mortal  life  he  had 
cut  off.  A  splendid  watch  it  was,  round  as  a  turnip. 
There  seems  to  be  a  natural  right  in  one  who  has  slain 
a  man  to  step  into  his  vacant  place  in  all  respects  ;  and 
from  the  beginning  of  man's  dealings  with  man  this 
right  has  been  practically  recognized,  whether  among 
warriors  or  robbers,  as  paramount  to  every  other.  Yet 
Septimius  could  not  feel  easy  in  availing  himself  of 
this  right.  He  therefore  resolved  to  keep  the  watch, 
and  even  the  sword  and  fusil,  —  which  were  less  ques- 


266  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

tionable  spoils  of  war,  —  only  till  lie  should  be  able  to 
restore  them  to  some  representative  of  the  young  offi 
cer.  The  contents  of  the  purse,  in  accordance  with 
the  request  of  the  dying. youth,  he  would  expend  in 
relieving  the  necessities  of  those  whom  the  war  (now 
broken  out,  and  of  which  no  one  could  see  the  limit) 
might  put  in  need  of  it.  The  miniature,  with  its 
broken  and  shattered  face,  that  had  so  vainly  inter 
posed  itself  between  its  wearer  and  death,  had  been 
sent  to  its  address. 

But  as  to  the  mysterious  document,  the  written  pa 
per,  that  he  had  laid  aside  without  unfolding  it,  but 
with  a  care  that  betokened  more  interest  in  it  than  in 
either  gold  or  weapon,  or  even  in  the  golden  represen 
tative  of  that  earthly  time  on  which  he  set  so  high  a 
value.  There  was  something  tremulous  in  his  touch 
of  it ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  it  by  the  mode 
in  which  he  hid  it  away,  and  secured  himself  from  it, 
as  it  were. 

This  done,  the  air  of  the  room,  the  low-ceilinged 
eastern  room  where  he  studied  and  thought,  became 
too  close  for  him,  and  he  hastened  out ;  for  he  was  full 
of  the  unshaped  sense  of  all  that  had  befallen,  and  the 
perception  of  the  great  public  event  of  a  broken-out 
war  was  intermixed  with  that  of  what  he  had  done 
personally  in  the  great  struggle  that  was  beginning. 
He  longed,  too,  to  know  what  was  the  news  of  the 
battle  that  had  gone  rolling  onward  along  the  hitherto 
peaceful  country  road,  converting  everywhere  (this 
demon  of  war,  we  mean),  with  one  blast  of  its  red 
sulphurous  breath,  the  peaceful  husbandman  to  a  sol 
dier  thirsting  for  blood.  He  turned  his  steps,  there 
fore,  towards  the  village,  thinking  it  probable  that  news 
must  have  arrived  either  of  defeat  or  victory,  from 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  267 

messengers  or  fliers,  to  cheer  or  sadden  the  old  men, 
the  women,  and  the  children,  who  alone  perhaps  re 
mained  there. 

But  Septimius  did  not  get  to  the  village.  As  he 
passed  along  by  the  cottage  that  has  been  already  de 
scribed,  Rose  Garfield  was  standing  at  the  door,  peer 
ing  anxiously  forth  to  know  what  was  the  issue  of  the 
conflict,  —  as  it  has  been  woman's  fate  to  do  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  and  is  so  still.  Seeing  Sep 
timius,  she  forgot  the  restraint  that  she  had  hitherto 
kept  herself  under,  and,  flying  at  him  like  a  bird,  she 
cried  out,  "  Septimius,  dear  Septimius,  where  have 
you  been  ?  What  news  do  you  bring  ?  You  look  as 
if  you  had  seen  some  strange  and  dreadful  thing." 

"Ah,  is  it  so?  Does  my  face  tell  such  stories?" 
exclaimed  the  young  man.  "  I  did  not  mean  it  should. 
Yes,  Eose,  I  have  seen  and  done  such  things  as  change 
a  man  in  a  moment." 

"  Then  you  have  been  in  this  terrible  fight,"  said 
Rose. 

"  Yes,  Rose,  I  have  had  my  part  in  it,"  answered 
Septimius. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  relieving  his  overburdened 
mind  by  telling  her  what  had  happened  no  farther  off 
than  on  the  hill  above  them ;  but,  seeing  her  excite 
ment,  and  recollecting  her  own  momentary  interview 
with  the  young  officer,  and  the  forced  intimacy  and 
link  that  had  been  established  between  them  by  the 
kiss,  he  feared  to  agitate  her  further  by  telling  her 
that  that  gay  and  beautiful  young  man  had  since  been 
slain,  and  deposited  in  a  bloody  grave  by  his  hands. 
And  yet  the  recollection  of  that  kiss  caused  a  thrill  of 
vengeful  joy  at  the  thought  that  the  perpetrator  had 
since  expiated  his  offence  with  his  life,  and  that  it  was 


268  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

himself  that  did  it,  so  deeply  was  Septimius's  Indian 
nature  of  revenge  and  blood  incorporated  with  that 
of  more  peaceful  forefathers,  although  Septimius  had 
grace  enough  to  chide  down  that  bloody  spirit,  feeling 
that  it  made  him,  not  a  patriot,  but  a  murderer. 

"  Ah,"  said  Rose,  shuddering,  "  it  is  awful  when  we 
must  kill  one  another  !  And  who  knows  where  it  will 
end?" 

"  With  me  it  will  end  here,  Rose,"  said  Septimius. 
"  It  may  be  lawful  for  any  man,  even  if  he  have  de 
voted  himself  to  God,  or  however  peaceful  his  pursuits, 
to  fight  to  the  death  when  the  enemy's  step  is  on  the 
soil  of  his  home ;  but  only  for  that  perilous  juncture, 
which  passed,  he  should  return  to  his  own  way  of 
peace.  I  have  done  a  terrible  thing  for  once,  dear 
Rose,  one  that  might  well  trace  a  dark  line  through 
all  my  future  life  ;  but  henceforth  I  cannot  think  it 
my  duty  to  pursue  any  further  a  work  for  which  my 
studies  and  my  nature  unfit  me." 

"  Oh  no !  Oh  no !  "  said  Rose  ;  "  never !  and  you  a 
minister,  or  soon  to  be  one.  There  must  be  some 
peacemakers  left  in  the  world,  or  everything  will  turn 
to  blood  and  confusion ;  for  even  women  grow  dread 
fully  fierce  in  these  times.  My  old  grandmother  la 
ments  her  bedriddenness,  because,  she  says,  she  can 
not  go  to  cheer  on  the  people  against  the  enemy.  But 
she  remembers  the  old  times  of  the  Indian  wars,  when 
the  women  were  as  much  in  danger  of  death  as  the 
men,  and  so  were  almost  as  fierce  as  they,  and  killed 
men  sometimes  with  their  own  hands.  But  women, 
nowadays,  ought  to  be  gentler  ;  let  the  men  be  fierce, 
if  they  must,  except  you,  and  such  as  you,  Septimius." 

"  Ah,  dear  Rose,"  said  Septimius,  "  I  have  not  the 
kind  and  sweet  impulses  that  you  speak  of.  I  need 


SEPTI  MIL'S  FELTON.  269 

something  to  soften  and  warm  my  cold,  hard  life ,- 
something  to  make  me  feel  how  dreadful  this  time  of 
warfare  is.  I  need  you,  dear  Rose,  who  are  all  kind 
ness  of  heart  and  mercy." 

And  here  Septimius,  hurried  away  by  I  know  not 
what  excitement  of  the  time,  —  the  disturbed  state  of 
the  country,  his  own  ebullition  of  passion,  the  deed  he 
had  done,  the  desire  to  press  one  human  being  close 
to  his  life,  because  he  had  shed  the  blood  of  another, 
his  half-formed  purposes,  his  shapeless  impulses  ;  in 
short,  being  affected  by  the  whole  stir  of  his  nature, 
—  spoke  to  Rose  of  love,  and  with  an  energy  that, 
indeed,  there  was  no  resisting  when  once  it  broke 
bounds.  And  Rose,  whose  maiden  thoughts,  to  say 
the  truth,  had  long  dwelt  upon  this  young  man,  —  ad 
miring  him  for  a  certain  dark  beauty,  knowing  him 
familiarly  from  childhood,  and  yet  having  the  sense, 
that  is  so  bewitching,  of  remoteness,  intermixed  with 
intimacy,  because  he  was  so  unlike  herself ;  having  a 
woman's  respect  for  scholarship,  her  imagination  the 
more  impressed  by  all  in  him  that  she  could  not  com 
prehend,  —  Rose  yielded  to  his  impetuous  suit,  and 
gave  him  the  troth  that  he  requested.  And  yet  it  was 
with  a  sort  of  reluctance  and  drawing  back ;  her  whole 
nature,  her  secretest  heart,  her  deepest  womanhood, 
perhaps,  did  not  consent.  There  was  something  in 
Septimius,  in  his  wild,  mixed  nature,  the  monstrous- 
ness  that  had  grown  out  of  his  hybrid  race,  the  black 
infusions,  too,  which  melancholic  men  had  left  there, 
the  devilishness  that  had  been  symbolized  in  the  pop 
ular  regard  about  his  family,  that  made  her  shiver, 
even  while  she  came  the  closer  to  him  for  that  very 
dread.  And  when  he  gave  her  the  kiss  of  betroth- 
ment  her  lips  grew  white.  If  it  had  not  been  in  the 


270  SEPTIM1US  FELTON. 

day  of  turmoil,  if  he  had  asked  her  in  any  quiet  time, 
when  Kose's  heart  was  in  its  natural  mood,  it  may  well 
be  that,  with  tears  and  pity  for  him,  and  half -pity  for 
herself,  Rose  would  have  told  Septimius  that  she  did 
not  think  she  could  love  him  well  enough  to  be  his 
wife. 

And  how  was  it  with  Septimius  ?  Well ;  there  was 
a  singular  correspondence  in  his  feelings  to  those  of 
Rose  Garfield.  At  first,  carried  away  by  a  passion 
that  seized  him  all  unawares,  and  seemed  to  develop 
itself  all  in  a  moment,  he  felt,  and  so  spoke  to  Rose, 
so  pleaded  his  suit,  as  if  his  whole  earthly  happiness 
depended  on  her  consent  to  be  his  bride.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  her  love  woidd  be  the  sunshine  in  the 
gloomy  dungeon  of  his  life.  But  when  her  bashful, 
downcast,  tremulous  consent  was  given,  then  immedi 
ately  came  a  strange  misgiving  into  his  mind.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  taken  to  himself  something  good  and 
beautiful  doubtless  in  itself,  but  which  might  be  the 
exchange  for  one  more  suited  to  him,  that  he  must 
now  give  up.  The  intellect,  which  was  the  prominent 
point  in  Septimius,  stirred  and  heaved,  crying  out 
vaguely  that  its  own  claims,  perhaps,  were  ignored  in 
this  contract.  Septimius  had  perhaps  no  right  to  love 
at  all ;  if  he  did,  it  should  have  been  a  woman  of  an 
other  make,  who  could  be  his  intellectual  companion 
and  helper.  And  then,  perchance,  —  perchance,  — • 
there  was  destined  for  him  some  high,  lonely  path,  in 
which,  to  make  any  progress,  to  come  to  any  end, 
he  must  walk  unburdened  by  the  affections.  Such 
thoughts  as  these  depressed  and  chilled  (as  many  men 
have  found  them,  or  similar  ones,  to  do)  the  moment 
of  success  that  should  have  been  the  most  exulting  in 
the  world.  And  so,  in  the  kiss  which  these  two  lov- 


SEPT1MIUS  FELTON.  271 

ers  had  exchanged  there  was,  after  all,  something  that 
repelled  ;  and  when  they  parted  they  wondered  at  their 
strange  states  of  mind,  but  would  not  acknowledge 
that  they  had  done  a  thing  that  ought  not  to  have 
been  done.  Nothing  is  surer,  however,  than  that,  if 
we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  drawn  into  too  close  proxim 
ity  with  people,  if  we  over-estimate  the  degree  of  our 
proper  tendency  towards  them,  or  theirs  towards  us,  a 
reaction  is  sure  to  follow. 

Septimius  quitted  Rose,  and  resumed  Ms  walk  to 
wards  the  village.  But  now  it  was  near  sunset,  and 
there  began  to  be  straggling  passengers  along  the 
road,  some  of  whom  came  slowly,  as  if  they  had  re 
ceived  hurts  ;  all  seemed  wearied.  Among  them  one 
form  appeared  which  Rose  soon  found  that  she  recog 
nized.  It  was  Robert  Hagburn,  with  a  shattered  fire 
lock  in  his  hand,  broken  at  the  butt,  and  his  left  arm 
bound  with  a  fragment  of  his  shirt,  and  suspended  in 
a  handkerchief ;  and  he  walked  weariedly,  but  bright 
ened  up  at  sight  of  Rose,  as  if  ashamed  to  let  her  see 
how  exhausted  and  dispirited  he  was.  Perhaps  he  ex 
pected  a  smile,  at  least  a  more  earnest  reception  than 
he  met ;  for  Rose,  with  the  restraint  of  what  had  re 
cently  passed  drawing  her  back,  merely  went  gravely 
a  few  steps  to  meet  him,  and  said,  "  Robert,  how  tired 
and  pale  you  look !  Are  you  hurt  ?  ' ' 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  replied  Robert  Hag- 
burn  ;  "  a  scratch  on  niy  left  arm  from  an  officer's 
sword,  with  whose  head  my  gunstock  made  instant  ac 
quaintance.  It  is  no  matter,  Rose ;  you  do  not  care 
for  it,  nor  do  I  either." 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Robert  ?  "  she  replied.  But 
without  more  greeting  he  passed  her,  and  went  into 


272  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

his  own  house,  where,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  he 
remained  in  that  despondency  that  men  generally  feel 
after  a  fight,  even  if  a  successful  one. 

Septimius,  the  next  day,  lost  no  time  in  writing  a 
letter  to  the  direction  given  him  by  the  young  officer, 
conveying  a  brief  account  of  the  latter's  death  and 
burial,  and  a  signification  that  he  held  in  readiness  to 
give  up  certain  articles  of  property,  at  any  future  time, 
to  his  representatives,  mentioning  also  the  amount  of 
money  contained  in  the  purse,  and  his  intention,  in 
compliance  with  the  verbal  will  of  the  deceased,  to  ex 
pend  it  in  alleviating  the  wants  of  prisoners.  Having 
so  done,  he  went  up  on  the  hill  to  look  at  the  grave, 
and  satisfy  himself  that  the  scene  there  had  not  been  a 
dream  ;  a  point  which  he  was  inclined  to  question,  in 
spite  of  the  tangible  evidence  of  the  sword  and  watch, 
which  still  hung  over  the  mantel  -  piece.  There  was 
the  little  mound,  however,  looking  so  incontrovertibly 
a  grave,  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  all  the  world  must 
see  it,  and  wonder  at  the  fact  of  its  being  there,  and 
spend  their  wits  in  conjecturing  who  slept  within  ; 
and,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  give  the  affair  a  question 
able  character,  this  secret  burial,  and  he  wondered 
and  wondered  why  the  young  man  had  been  so  ear 
nest  about  it.  Well ;  there  was  the  grave  ;  and,  more 
over,  on  the  leafy  earth,  where  the  dying  youth  had 
lain,  there  were  traces  of  blood,  which  no  rain  had  yet 
washed  away.  Septimius  wondered  at  the  easiness 
with  which  he  acquiesced  in  this  deed ;  in  fact,  he  felt 
in  a  slight  degree  the  effects  of  that  taste  of  blood, 
which  makes  the  slaying  of  men,  like  any  other  abuse, 
sometimes  become  a  passion.  Perhaps  it  was  his  In 
dian  trait  stirring  in  him  again  ;  at  any  rate,, '•'it  is 
not  delightful  to  observe  how  readily  man  becomes  a 
blood-sheddinsr  animal. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  273 

Looking  down  from  the  hill-top,  he  saw  the  little 
dwelling  of  Rose  Garfield,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the   girl  herself,   passing  the   windows   or    the    door, 
about  her  household  duties,  and  listened  to  hear  the 
singing  which  usually  broke  out  of  her.     But  Rose, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  did  not  warble  as  usual  this 
morning.     She  trod  about   silently,  and  somehow  or 
other  she  was  translated  out  of  the  ideality  in  which 
Septimius  usually  enveloped   her,    and   looked   little 
more  than  a  New  England  girl,  very  pretty  indeed, 
but  not  enough  so  perhaps  to  engross  a  man's  life  and 
higher  purposes  into  her  own  narrow  circle  ;  so,  at 
least,  Septimius  thought.     Looking  a  little  farther,  - 
down  into  the  green  recess  where  stood  Robert  Hag- 
burn's  house,  —  he  saw  that  young  man,  looking  very 
pale,  with  his   arm  in  a  sling  sitting  listlessly  on  a 
half-chopped  log  of  wood  which  was  not  likely  soon  to 
be  severed  by  Robert's  axe.     Like  other  lovers,  Sep 
timius  had  not  failed  to  be  aware  that  Robert  Hag- 
burn  was  sensible  to  Rose  Garfield's  attractions  ;  and 
now,  as  he  looked  down  on  them  both  from  his  ele 
vated  position,  he  wondered  if  it  would  not  have  been 
better  for  Rose's  happiness  if  her  thoughts  and  virgin 
fancies  had  settled  on  that  frank,  cheerful,  able,  whole 
some  young  man,  instead  of  on  himself,  who  met  her 
on  so  few  points  ;  and,  in  relation  to  whom,  there  was 
perhaps  a  plant  that  had  its  root  in  the  grave,  that 
would  entwine  itself  around  his  whole  life,  overshad 
owing  it  with  dark,  rich  foliage  and  fruit  that  he  alone 
could  feast  upon. 

For  the  sombre  imagination  of  Septimius,  though 
he  kept  it  as  much  as  possible  away  from  the  subject, 
still  kept  hinting  and  whispering,  still  coming  back  to 
the  point,  still  secretly  suggesting  that  the  event  of 

VOL-    XI.  18 


274  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

yesterday  was  to  have  momentous  consequences  upon 
his  fate. 

He  had  not  yet  looked  at  the  paper  which  the 
young  man  bequeathed  to  him  ;  he  had  laid  it  away 
unopened ;  not  that  he  felt  little  interest  in  it,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  because  he  looked  for  some  blaze  of  light 
which  had  been  reserved  for  him  alone.  The  young 
officer  had  been  only  the  bearer  of  it  to  him,  and  he 
had  come  hither  to  die  by  his  hand,  because  that  was 
the  readiest  way  by  which  he  could  deliver  his  mes 
sage.  How  else,  in  the  infinite  chances  of  human  af 
fairs,  could  the  document  have  found  its  way  to  its 
destined  possessor?  Thus  mused  Septimius,  pacing 
to  and  fro  on  the  level  edge  of  his  hill-top,  apart  from 
the  world,  looking  down  occasionally  into  it,  and  see 
ing  its  love  and  interest  away  from  him  ;  while  Rose, 
it  might  be  looking  upward,  saw  occasionally  his  pass 
ing  figure,  and  trembled  at  the  nearness  and  remote 
ness  that  existed  between  them ;  and  Robert  Hagburn 
looked  too,  and  wondered  what  manner  of  man  it  was 
who,  having  won  Rose  Garfield  (for  his  instinct  told 
him  this  was  so),  could  keep  that  distance  between  her 
and  him,  thinking  remote  thoughts. 

Yes;  there  was  Septimius  treading  a  path  of  his 
own  on  the  hill-top  ;  his  feet  began  only  that  morning 
to  wear  it  in  his  walking  to  and  fro,  sheltered  from 
the  lower  world,  except  in  occasional  glimpses,  by  the 
birches  and  locusts  that  threw  up  their  foliage  from 
the  hill-side.  But  many  a  year  thereafter  he  continued 
to  tread  that  path,  till  it  was  worn  deep  with  his  foot 
steps  and  trodden  down  hard  ;  and  it  was  believed  by 
some  of  his  superstitious  neighbors  that  the  grass  and 
little  shrubs  shrank  away  from  his  path,  and  made  it 
wider  on  that  account ;  because  there  was  something 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  275 

in  the  broodings  that  urged  hiin  to  and  fro  along  the 
path  alien  to  nature  and  its  productions.  There  was 
another  opinion,  too,  that  an  invisible  fiend,  one  of  his 
relatives  by  blood,  walked  side  by  side  with  him,  and 
so  made  the  pathway  wider  than  Jiis  single  footsteps 
could  have  made  it.  But  all  this  was  idle,  and  was, 
indeed,  only  the  foolish  babble  that  hovers  like  a  mist 
about  men  who  withdraw  themselves  from  the  throng, 
and  involve  themselves  in  unintelligible  pursuits  and 
interests  of  their  own.  For  the  present,  the  small 
world,  which  alone  knew  of  him,  considered  Septimius 
as  a  studious  young  man,  who  was  fitting  for  the  min 
istry,  and  was  likely  enough  to  do  credit  to  the  minis 
terial  blood  that  he  drew  from  his  ancestors,  in  spite 
of  the  wild  stream  that  the  Indian  priest  had  contrib 
uted  ;  and  perhaps  none  the  worse,  as  a  clergyman, 
for  having  an  instinctive  sense  of  the  nature  of  the 
Devil  from  his  traditionary  claims  to  partake  of  his 
blood.  But  what  strange  interest  there  is  in  tracing 
out  the  first  steps  by  which  we  enter  on  a  career  that 
influences  our  life  ;  and  this  deep-worn  pathway  on 
the  hill-top,  passing  and  repassing  by  a  grave,  seemed 
to  symbolize  it  in  Septimius's  case. 

I  suppose  the  morbidness  of  Septimius's  disposition 
was  excited  by  the  circumstances  which  had  put  the 
paper  into  his  possession.  Had  he  received  it  by  post, 
it  might  not  have  impressed  him ;  he  might  possibly 
have  looked  over  it  with  ridicule,  and  tossed  it  aside. 
But  he  had  taken  it  from  a  dying  man,  and  he  felt 
that  his  fate  was  in  it ;  and  truly  it  turned  out  to  be 
so.  He  waited  for  a  fit  opportunity  to  open  it  and 
read  it ;  he  put  it  off  as  if  he  cared  nothing  about  it ; 
perhaps  it  was  because  he  cared  so  much.  Whenever 
he  had  a  happy  time  with  Rose  (and,  moody  as  Sep- 


276  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

tiniius  was,  such  happy  moments  came),  he  felt  that 
then  was  not  the  time  to  look  into  the  paper,  —  it  was 
not  to  be  read  in  a  happy  mood. 

Once  he  asked  Rose  to  walk  with  him  on  the  hill 
top. 

"  Why,  what  a  path  you  have  worn  here,  Septim- 
ius !  "  said  the  girl.  "  You  walk  miles  and  miles  on 
this  one  spot,  and  get  no  farther  on  than  when  you 
started.  That  is  strange  walking  !  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Rose ;  I  sometimes  think  I  get  a 
little  onward.  But  it  is  sweeter  —  yes,  much  sweeter, 
I  find  —  to  have  you  walking  on  this  path  here  than 
to  be  treading  it  alone." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Rose  ;  "  for  sometimes, 
when  I  look  up  here,  and  see  you  through  the 
branches,  with  your  head  bent  down,  and  your  hands 
clasped  behind  you,  treading,  treading,  treading,  al 
ways  in  one  way,  I  wonder  whether  I  am  at  all  in  your 
mind.  I  don't  think,  Septimius,"  added  she,  looking 
up  in  his  face  and  smiling,  "  that  ever  a  girl  had  just 
such  a  young  man  for  a  lover." 

"  No  young  man  ever  had  such  a  girl,  I  am  sure,'" 
said  Septimius ;  "  so  sweet,  so  good  for  him,  so  prolific 
of  good  influences  !  " 

"  Ah,  it  makes  me  think  well  of  myself  to  bring  such 
a  smile  into  your  face  !  But,  Septimius,  what  is  this 
little  hillock  here  so  close  to  our  path  ?  Have  you 
heaped  it  up  here  for  a  seat  ?  Shall  we  sit  down  upon 
it  for  an  instant?  —  for  it  makes  me  more  tired  to 
walk  backward  and  forward  on  one  path  than  to  go 
straight  forward  a  much  longer  distance." 

"  Well ;  but  we  will  not  sit  down  on  this  hillock," 
said  Septimius,  drawing  her  away  from  it.  "  Farther 
out  this  way,  if  you  please,  Rose,  where  we  shall  have 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  277 

a  better  view  over  the  wide  plain,  the  valley,  and  the 
long,  tame  ridge  of  hills  on  the  other  side,  shutting  it 
in  like  human  life.  It  is  a  landscape  that  never  tires, 
though  it  has  nothing  striking  about  it;  and  I  am 
glad  that  there  are  no  great  hills  to  be  thrusting  them 
selves  into  my  thoughts,  and  crowding  out  better 
things.  It  might  be  desirable,  in  some  states  of  mind, 
to  have  a  glimpse  of  water,  —  to  have  the  lake  that 
once  must  have  covered  this  green  valley,  —  because 
water  reflects  the  sky,  and  so  is  like  religion  in  life, 
the  spiritual  element." 

"  There  is  the  brook  running  through  it,  though  we 
do  not  see  it,"  replied  Rose  ;  "  a  torpid  little  brook,  to 
be  sure  ;  but,  as  you  say,  it  has  heaven  in  its  bosom, 
like  Walden  Pond,  or  any  wider  one." 

As  they  sat  together  on  the  hill-top,  they  could  look 
down  into  Robert  Hagburn's  enclosure,  and  they  saw 
him,  with  his  arm  now  relieved  from  the  sling,  walk 
ing  about,  in  a  very  erect  manner,  with  a  middle-aged 
man  by  his  side,  to  whom  he  seemed  to  be  talking  and 
explaining  some  matter.  Even  at  that  distance  Sep- 
timius  could  see  that  the  rustic  stoop  and  uncouthness 
had  somehow  fallen  away  from  Robert,  and  that  he 
seemed  developed. 

"  What  has  come  to  Robert  Hagburn  ?  "  said  he. 
"  He  looks  like  another  man  than  the  lout  I  knew  a 
few  weeks  ago." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  "  except  what  comes 
to  a  good  many  young  men  nowadays.  He  has  en 
listed,  and  is  going  to  the  war.  It  is  a  pity  for  his 
mother." 

"  A  great  pity,"  said  Septimius.  "  Mothers  are 
greatly  to  be  pitied  all  over  the  country  just  now,  and 
there  are  some  even  more  to  be  pitied  than  the  moth- 


278  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ers,  though  many  of  them  do  not  know  or  suspect  any. 
thing  about  their  cause  of  grief  at  present." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?  "  asked  Rose. 

"  I  mean  those  many  good  and  sweet  young  girls," 
said  Septimius,  "who  would  have  been  happy  wives 
to  the  thousands  of  young  men  who  now,  like  Robert 
Hagburn,  are  going  to  the  war.  Those  young  men  — 
many  of  them  at  least  —  will  sicken  and  die  in  camp, 
or  be  shot  down,  or  struck  through  with  bayonets  on 
battle-fields,  and  turn  to  dust  and  bones ;  while  the 
girls  that  would  have  loved  them,  and  made  happy 
firesides  for  them,  will  pine  and  wither,  and  tread 
along  many  sour  and  discontented  years,  and  at  last 
go  out  of  life  without  knowing  what  life  is.  So  you 
see,  Rose,  every  shot  that  takes  effect  kills  two  at 
least,  or  kills  one  and  worse  than  kills  the  other." 

"  No  woman  will  live  single  on  account  of  poor  Rob 
ert  Hagburn  being  shot,"  said  Rose,  with  a  change  of 
tone ;  "  for  he  would  never  be  married  were  he  to  stay 
at  home  and  plough  the  field." 

"  How  can  you  tell  that,  Rose  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

Rose  did  not  tell  how  she  came  to  know  so  much 
about  Robert  Hagburn's  matrimonial  purposes;  but 
after  this  little  talk  it  appeared  as  if  something  had 
risen  up  between  them,  —  a  sort  of  mist,  a  medium, 
in  which  their  intimacy  was  not  increased  ;  for  the 
flow  and  interchange  of  sentiment  was  balked,  and 
they  took  only  one  or  two  turns  in  silence  along  Sep- 
timius's  trodden  path.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  it 
was;  but  there  are  cases  in  which  it  is  inscrutably 
revealed  to  persons  that  they  have  made  a  mistake 
in  what  is  of  the  highest  concern  to  them ;  and  this 
truth  often  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  vague  depression 
of  the  spirit,  like  a  vapor  settling  down  on  a  land- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  279 

scape  ;  a  misgiving,  coming  and  going  perhaps,  a  lack 
of  perfect  certainty.  Whatever  it  was,  Rose  and  Sep- 
timius  had  no  more  tender  and  playful  words  that  day ; 
and  Rose  soon  went  to  look  after  her  grandmother, 
and  Septimius  went  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  study, 
after  making  an  arrangement  to  meet  Rose  the  next 
day. 

Septimius  shut  himself  up,  and  drew  forth  the  docu 
ment  which  the  young  officer,  with  that  singular  smile 
on  his  dying  face,  had  bequeathed  to  him  as  the  re 
ward  of  his  death.  It  was  in  a  covering;  of  folded 

O 

parchment,  right  through  which,  as  aforesaid,  was  a 
bullet-hole  and  some  stains  of  blood.  Septimius  un 
rolled  the  parchment  cover,  and  found  inside  a  manu 
script,  closely  written  in  a  crabbed  hand ;  so  crabbed, 
indeed,  that  Septimius  could  not  at  first  read  a  word 
of  it,  nor  even  satisfy  himself  in  what  language  it  was 
written.  There  seemed  to  be  Latin  words,  and  some 
interspersed  ones  in  Greek  characters,  and  here  and 
there  he  could  doubtfully  read  an  English  sentence  ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  it  was  an  unintelligible  mass,  con 
veying  somehow  an  idea  that  it  was  the  fruit  of  vast 
labor  and  erudition,  emanating  from  a  mind  very  full 
of  books,  and  grinding  and  pressing  down  the  great 
accumulation  of  grapes  that  it  had  gathered  from  so 
many  vineyards,  and  squeezing  out  rich  viscid  juices,  — 
potent  wine,  —  with  which  the  reader  might  get  drunk. 
Some  of  it,  moreover,  seemed,  for  the  further  mystifi 
cation  of  the  officer,  to  be  written  in  cipher;  a  needless 
precaution,  it  might  seem,  when  the  writer's  natural 
chirography  was  so  full  of  puzzle  and  bewilderment. 

Septimius  looked  at  this  strange  manuscript,  and  it 
shook  in  his  hands  as  he  held  it  before  his  eyes,  so 


280  SEPTIM1US  FELTON. 

great  was  his  excitement.  Probably,  doubtless,  it  was 
in  a  great  measure  owing  to  the  way  in  which  it  came 
to  him,  with  such  circumstances  of  tragedy  and  mys 
tery  ;  as  if  —  so  secret  and  so  important  was  it  —  it 
could  not  be  within  the  knowledge  of  two  persons  at 
once,  and  therefore  it  was  necessary  that  one  should 
die  in  the  act  of  transmitting  it  to  the  hand  of  another, 
the  destined  possessor,  inheritor,  profiter  by  it.  By 
the  bloody  hand,  as  all  the  great  possessions  in  this 
world  have  been  gained  and  inherited,  he  had  suc 
ceeded  to  the  legacy,  the  richest  that  mortal  man  ever 
could  receive.  He  pored  over  the  inscrutable  sen 
tences,  and  wondered,  when  he  should  succeed  in  read 
ing  one,  if  it  might  summon  up  a  subject-fiend,  appear 
ing  with  thunder  and  devilish  demonstrations.  And 
by  what  other  strange  chance  had  the  document  come 
into  the  hand  of  him  who  alone  was  fit  to  receive  it  ? 
It  seemed  to  Septimius,  in  his  enthusiastic  egotism,  as 
if  the  whole  chain  of  events  had  been  arranged  pur 
posely  for  this  end  ;  a  difference  had  come  between 
two  kindred  peoples ;  a  war  had  broken  out ;  a  young 
officer,  with  the  traditions  of  an  old  family  represented 
in  his  line,  had  marched,  and  had  met  with  a  peaceful 
student,  who  had  been  incited  from  high  and  noble 
motives  to  take  his  life ;  then  came  a  strange,  brief 
intimacy,  in  which  his  victim  made  the  slayer  his  heir. 
All  these  chances,  as  they  seemed,  all  these  interfer 
ences  of  Providence,  as  they  doubtless  were,  had  been 
necessary  in  order  to  put  this  manuscript  into  the 
hands  of  Septimius,  who  now  pored  over  it,  and  could 
not  with  certainty  read  one  word  ! 

But  this  did  not  trouble  him,  except  for  the  momen 
tary  delay.  Because  he  felt  well  assured  that  the 
strong,  concentrated  study  that  he  would  bring  to  it 


SEPT1MIUS  FELTOX.  281 

would  remove  all  difficulties,  as  the  rays  of  a  lens  melt 
stones ;  as  the  telescope  pierces  through  densest  light 
of  stars,  and  resolves  them  into  their  individual  brill 
iancies.  He  could  afford  to  spend  years  upon  it  if  it 
were  necessary ;  but  earnestness  and  application  should 
do  quickly  the  work  of  years. 

Amid  these  musings  he  was  interrupted  by  his  Aunt 
Keziah ;  though  generally  observant  enough  of  her 
nephew's  studies,  and  feeling  a  sanctity  in  them,  both 
because  of  his  intending  to  be  a  minister  and  because 
she  had  a  great  reverence  for  learning,  even  if  hea 
thenish,  this  good  old  lady  summoned  Septimius  some 
what  peremptorily  to  chop  wood  for  her  domestic  pur 
poses.  How  strange  it  is,  —  the  way  in  which  we 
are  summoned  from  all  high  purposes  by  these  little 
homely  necessities  ;  all  symbolizing  the  great  fact  that 
the  earthly  part  of  us,  with  its  demands,  takes  up  the 
greater  portion  of  all  our  available  force.  So  Septim 
ius,  grumbling  and  groaning,  went  to  the  woodshed 
and  exercised  himself  for  an  hour  as  the  old  lady  re 
quested  ;  and  it  was  only  by  instinct  that  he  worked, 
hardly  conscious  what  he  was  doing.  The  whole  of 
passing  life  seemed  impertinent ;  or  if,  for  an  instant, 
it  seemed  otherwise,  then  his  lonely  speculations  and 
plans  seemed  to  become  impalpable,  and  to  have  only 
the  consistency  of  vapor,  which  his  utmost  concentra 
tion  succeeded  no  further  than  to  make  into  the  like 
ness  of  absurd  faces,  mopping,  mowing,  and  laughing 
at  him. 

But  that  sentence  of  mystic  meaning  shone  out  be 
fore  him  like  a  transparency,  illuminated  in  the  dark 
ness  of  his  mind ;  he  determined  to  take  it  for  his 
motto  until  he  should  be  victorious  in  his  quest. 
When  he  took  his  candle,  to  retire  apparently  to  bed, 


282  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

he  again  drew  forth  the  manuscript,  and,  sitting  down 
by  the  dim  light,  tried  vainly  to  read  it ;  but  he  could 
not  as  yet  settle  himself  to  concentrated  and  regular 
effort ;  he  kept  turning  the  leaves  of  the  manuscript, 
in  the  hope  that  some  other  illuminated  sentence  might 
gleam  out  upon  him,  as  the  first  had  done,  and  shed  a 
light  on  the  context  around  it ;  and  that  then  another 
would  be  discovered,  with  similar  effect,  until  the 
whole  document  would  thus  be  illuminated  with  sep 
arate  stars  of  light,  converging  and  concentrating  in 
one  radiance  that  should  make  the  whole  visible.  Bat 
such  was  his  bad  fortune,  not  another  word  of  the 
manuscript  was  he  able  to  read  that  whole  evening ; 
.and,  moreover,  while  he  had  still  an  inch  of  candle 
left,  Aunt  Keziah,  in  her  nightcap,  —  as  witch-like  a 
figure  as  ever  went  to  a  wizard  meeting  in  the  forest 
with  Septimius's  ancestor, —-appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  room,  aroused  from  her  bed,  and  shaking  her  fin 
ger  at  him. 

"  Septimius,"  said  she,  "  you  keep  me  awake,  and 
you  will  ruin  your  eyes,  and  turn  your  head,  if  you 
study  till  midnight  in  this  manner.  You  '11  never  live 
to  be  a  minister,  if  this  is  the  way  you  go  on." 

"  Well,  well,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius,  cover 
ing  his  manuscript  with  a  book,  "  I  am  just  going  to 
bed  now." 

"  Good  night,  then,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  and  God 
bless  your  labors." 

Strangely  enough,  a  glance  at  the  manuscript,  as  he 
hid  it  from  the  old  woman,  had  seemed  to  Septimius 
to  reveal  another  sentence,  of  which  he  had  imper 
fectly  caught  the  purport ;  and  when  she  had  gone,  he 
in  vain  sought  the  place,  and  vainly,  too,  endeavored 
to  recall  the  meaning  of  what  he  had  read.  Doubtless 


SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON.  283 

his  fancy  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  sentence, 
and  he  felt  as  if  it  might  have  vanished  from  the  book 
forever.  In  fact,  the  unfortunate  young  man.  excited 
and  tossed  to  and  fro  by  a  variety  of  unusual  impulses, 
was  got  into  a  bad  way,  and  was  likely  enough  to  go 
mad,  unless  the  balancing  portion  of  his  mind  proved 
to  be  of  greater  volume  and  effect  than  as  yet  appeared 
to  be  the  case. 

The  next  morning  he  was  up,  bright  and  early,  por 
ing  over  the  manuscript  with  the  sharpened  wits  of  the 
new  day,  peering  into  its  night,  into  its  old,  blurred, 
forgotten  dream ;  and,  indeed,  he  had  been  dreaming 
about  it,  and  was  fully  possessed  with  the  idea  that,  in 
his  dream,  he  had  taken  up  the  inscrutable  document, 
and  read  it  off  as  glibly  as  he  would  the  page  of  a 
modern  drama,  in  a  continual  rapture  with  the  deep 
truth  that  it  made  clear  to  his  comprehension,  and 
the  lucid  way  in  which  it  evolved  the  mode  in  which 
man  might  be  restored  to  his  originally  undying  state. 
So  strong  was  the  impression,  that  when  he  unfolded 
the  manuscript,  it  was  with  almost  the  belief  that  the 
crabbed  old  handwriting  woidd  be  plain  to  him.  Such 
did  not  prove  to  be  the  case,  however  ;  so  far  from  it, 
that  poor  Septimius  in  vain  turned  over  the  yellow 
pages  in  quest  of  the  one  sentence  which  he  had  been 
able,  or  fancied  he  had  been  able,  to  read  yesterday. 
The  illumination  that  had  brought  it  out  was  now 
faded,  and  all  was  a  blur,  an  inscrutableness,  a  scrawl 
of  unintelligible  characters  alike.  So  much  did  this 
affect  him,  that  he  had  almost  a  mind  to  tear  it  into 
a  thousand  fragments,  and  scatter  it  out  of  the  window 
to  the  west -wind,  that  was  then  blowing  past  the 
house ;  and  if,  in  that  summer  season,  there  had  been 


284  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

a  fire  on  the  hearth,  it  is  possible  that  easy  realization 
of  a  destructive  impulse  might  have  incited  him  to 
fling  the  accursed  scrawl  into  the  hottest  of  the  flames, 
and  thus  returned  it  to  the  Devil,  who,  he  suspected, 
was  the  original  author  of  it.  Had  he  done  so,  what 
strange  and  gloomy  passages  would  I  have  been  spared 
the  pain  of  relating  !  How  different  would  have  been 
the  life  of  Septimius,  —  a  thoughtful  preacher  of  God's 
word,  taking  severe  but  conscientious  views  of  man's 
state  and  relations,  a  heavy-browed  walker  and  worker 
on  earth,  and,  finally,  a  slumberer  in  an  honored  grave, 
with  an  epitaph  bearing  testimony  to  his  great  useful 
ness  in  his  generation. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  here  was  the  troublesome  day 
passing  over  him,  and  pestering,  bewildering,  and  trip 
ping  him  up  with  its  mere  sublunary  troubles,  as  the 
days  will  all  of  us  the  moment  we  try  to  do  anything 
that  we  flatter  ourselves  is  of  a  little  more  importance 
than  others  are  doing.  Aunt  Keziah  tormented  him  a 
great  while  about  the  rich  field,  just  across  the  road,  in 
front  of  the  house,  which  Septimius  had  neglected  the 
cultivation  of,  unwilling  to  spare  the  time  to  plough, 
to  plant,  to  hoe  it  himself,  but  hired  a  lazy  lout  of  the 
village,  when  he  might  just  as  well  have  employed  and 
paid  wages  to  the  scarecrow  which  Aunt  Keziah  dressed 
out  in  ancient  habiliments,  and  set  up  in  the  midst  of 
the  corn.  Then  came  an  old  codger  from  the  village, 
talking  to  Septimius  about  the  war,  —  a  theme  of 
which  he  was  weary :  telling  the  rumor  of  skirmishes 
that  the  next  day  would  prove  to  be  false,  of  battles 
that  were  immediately  to  take  place,  of  encounters 
with  the  enemy  in  which  our  side  showed  the  valor  of 
twenty-fold  heroes,  but  had  to  retreat ;  babbling  'about 
shells  and  mortars,  battalions,  manoeuvres,  angles,  fas* 


SEPT1MIUS  FELTON.  285 

eines,  and  other  items  of  military  art ;  for  war  had 
filled  the  whole  brain  of  the  people,  and  enveloped  the 
whole  thought  of  man  in  a  mist  of  gunpowder. 

In  this  way,  sitting  on  his  doorstep,  or  in  the  very 
study,  haunted  by  such  speculations,  this  wretched  old 
man  would  waste  the  better  part  of  a  summer  after 
noon,  while  Septimius  listened,  returning  abstracted 
monosyllables,  answering  amiss,  and  wishing  his  perse 
cutor  jammed  into  one  of  the  cannons  he  talked  about, 
and  fired  off,  to  end  his  interminable  babble  in  one 
roar ;  [talking]  of  great  officers  coming  from  France 
and  other  countries ;  of  overwhelming  forces  from 
England,  to  put  an  end  to  the  war  at  once :  of  the  un 
likelihood  that  it  ever  should  be  ended ;  of  its  hope 
lessness  ;  of  its  certainty  of  a  good  and  speedy  end. 

Then  came  limping  along  the  lane  a  disabled  soldier, 
begging  his  way  home  from  the  field,  which,  a  little 
while  ago,  he  had  sought  in  the  full  vigor  of  rustic 
health  he  was  never  to  know  again  ;  with  whom  Sep 
timius  had  to  talk,  and  relieve  his  wants  as  far  as  he 
could  (though  not  from  the  poor  young  officer's  de 
posit  of  English  gold),  and  send  him  on  his  way. 

Then  came  the  minister  to  talk  with  his  former  pu 
pil,  about  whom  he  had  latterly  had  much  meditation, 
not  understanding  what  mood  had  taken  possession  of 
him  ;  for  the  minister  was  a  man  of  insight,  and  from 
conversations  with  Septimius,  as  searching  as  he  knew 
how  to  make  them,  he  had  begun  to  doubt  whether  he 
were  sufficiently  sound  in  faith  to  adopt  the  clerical 
persuasion.  Not  that  he  supposed  him  to  be  anything 
like  a  confirmed  unbeliever ;  but  he  thought  it  proba 
ble  that  these  doubts,  these  strange,  dark,  dishearten 
ing  suggestions  of  the  Devil,  that  so  surely  infect  cer 
tain  temperaments  and  measures  of  intellect,  were  tor- 


286  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

menting  poor  Septimius,  and  pulling  him  back  from 
the  path  in  which  he  was  capable  of  doing  so  much 
good.  So  he  came  this  afternoon  to  talk  seriously 
with  him,  and  to  advise  him,  if  the  case  were  as  he 
supposed,  to  get  for  a  time  out  of  the  track  of  the 
thought  in  which  he  had  so  long  been  engaged  ;  to 
enter  into  active  life  ;  and  by  and  by,  when  the  mor 
bid  influences  should  have  been  overcome  by  a  change 
of  mental  and  moral  religion,  he  might  return,  fresh 
and  healthy,  to  his  original  design. 

"  What  can  I  do,"  asked  Septimius,  gloomily,  "what 
business  take  up,  when  the  whole  land  lies  waste  and 
idle,  except  for  this  war  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  very  business,  then,"  said  the  minis 
ter.  "  Do  you  think  God's  work  is  not  to  be  done  in 
the  field  as  well  as  in  the  pulpit  ?  You  are  strong, 
Septimius,  of  a  bold  character,  and  have  a  mien  and 
bearing  that  gives  you  a  natural  command  among  men. 
Go  to  the  wars,  and  do  a  valiant  part  for  your  country, 
and  come  back  to  your  peaceful  mission  when  the 
enemy  has  vanished.  Or  you  might  go  as  chaplain  to 
a  regiment,  and  use  either  hand  in  battle,  —  pray  for 
success  before  a  battle,  help  win  it  with  sword  or  gun, 
and  give  thanks  to  God,  kneeling  on  the  bloody  field, 
at  its  close.  You  have  already  stretched  one  foe  on 
your  native  soil." 

Septimius  could  not  but  smile  within  himself  at  this 
warlike  and  bloody  counsel ;  and,  joining  it  with  some 
similar  exhortations  from  Aunt  Keziah,  he  was  in 
clined  to  think  that  women  and  clergymen  are,  in  mat 
ters  of  war,  the  most  uncompromising  and  bloodthirsty 
of  the  community.  However,  he  replied,  coolly,  that 
his  moral  impulses  and  his  feelings  of  duty  did  not  ex 
actly  impel  him  in  this  direction,  and  that  he  was  of 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOF.  287 

opinion  that  war  was  a  business  in  which  a  man  could 
not  engage  with  safety  to  his  conscience,  unless  his 
conscience  actually  drove  him  into  it ;  and  that  this 
made  all  the  difference  between  heroic  battle  and 
murderous  strife.  The  good  minister  had  nothing 
very  effectual  to  answer  to  this,  and  took  his  leave, 
with  a  still  stronger  opinion  than  before  that  there 
was  something  amiss  in  his  pupil's  mind. 

By  this  time,  this  thwarting  day  had  gone  on 
through  its  course  of  little  and  great  impediments  to 
his  pursuit,  —  the  discouragements  of  trifling  and 
earthly  business,  of  purely  impertinent  interruption, 
of  severe  and  disheartening  opposition  from  the  pow 
erful  counteraction  of  different  kinds  of  mind,  —  until 
the  hour  had  come  at  which  he  had  arranged  to  meet 
Rose  Garfield.  I  am  afraid  the  poor  thwarted  youth 
did  not  go  to  his  love-tryst  in  any  very  amiable  mood  ; 
but  rather,  perhaps,  reflecting  how  all  things  earthly 
and  immortal,  and  love  among  the  rest,  whichever  cat 
egory,  of  earth  or  heaven,  it  may  belong  to,  set  them 
selves  against  man's  progress  in  any  pursuit  that  he 
seeks  to  devote  himself  to.  It  is  one  struggle,  the 
moment  he  undertakes  such  a  thing,  of  everything  else 
in  the  world  to  impede  him. 

However,  as  it  turned  out,  it  was  a  pleasant  and 
happy  interview  that  he  had  with  Rose  that  afternoon. 
The  girl  herself  was  in  a  happy,  tuneful  mood,  and 
met  him  with  such  simplicity,  threw  such  a  light  of 
sweetness  over  his  soul,  that  Septimius  almost  forgot 
all  the  wild  cares  of  the  day,  and  walked  by  her  side 
with  a  quiet  fulness  of  pleasure  that  was  new  to  him. 
She  reconciled  him,  in  some  secret  way,  to  life  as  it 
was,  to  imperfection,  to  decay ;  without  any  help  from 
her  intellect,  but  through  the  influence  of  her  charac- 


288  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ter,  she  seemed,  not  to  solve,  but  to  smooth  away, 
problems  that  troubled  him  ;  merely  by  being,  by  wo 
manhood,  by  simplicity,  she  interpreted  God's  ways 
to  him ;  she  softened  the  stoniness  that  was  cfatherino1 

O  & 

about  his  heart.  And  so  they  had  a  delightful  time 
of  talking,  and  laughing,  and  smelling  to  flowers ;  and 
when  they  were  parting,  Septimius  said  to  her,  — 

"  Rose,  you  have  convinced  me  that  this  is  a  most 
happy  world,  and  that  Life  has  its  two  children,  Birth 
and  Death,  and  is  bound  to  prize  them  equally ;  and 
that  God  is  very  kind  to  his  earthly  children ;  and 
that  all  will  go  well." 

"  And  have  I  convinced  you  of  all  this  ?  "  replied 
Rose,  with  a  pretty  laughter.  "  It  is  all  true,  no 
doubt,  but  I  should  not  have  known  how  to  argue  for 
it.  But  you  are  very  sweet,  and  have  not  frightened 
me  to-day." 

"  Do  I  ever  frighten  you  then,  Rose  ?  "  asked  Sep 
timius,  bending  his  black  brow  upon  her  with  a  look 
of  surprise  and  displeasure. 

"  Yes,  sometimes,"  said  Rose,  facing  him  with  cour 
age,  and  smiling  upon  the  cloud  so  as  to  drive  it  away ; 
"  when  you  frown  upon  me  like  that,  I  am  a  little 
afraid  you  will  beat  me,  all  in  good  time." 

"  Now,"  said  Septimius,  laughing  again,  "  you  shall 
have  your  choice,  to  be  beaten  on  the  spot,  or  suffer 
another  kind  of  punishment,  —  which  ?  " 

So  saying,  he  snatched  her  to  him,  and  strove  to 
kiss  her,  while  Rose,  laughing  and  struggling,  cried 
out,  "  The  beating  !  the  beating !  "  But  Septimius 
relented  not,  though  it  was  only  Rose's  cheek  that  he 
succeeded  in  touching.  In  truth,  except  for  that  first 
one,  at  the  moment  of  their  plighted  troths,  I  doubt 
whether  Septimius  ever  touched  those  soft,  sweet  lips, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOX.  289 

where  the  smiles  dwelt  and  the  little  pouts.  He  now 
returned  to  his  study,  and  questioned  with  himself 
whether  he  should  touch  that  weary,  ugly,  yellow, 
blurred,  unintelligible,  bewitched,  mysterious,  bullet- 
penetrated,  blood-stained  manuscript  again.  There 
was  an  undefmable  reluctance  to  do  so,  and  at  the 
same  time  an  enticement  (irresistible,  as  it  proved) 
drawing  him  towards  it.  He  yielded,  and  taking  it 
from  his  desk,  in  which  the  precious,  fatal  treasure 
was  locked  up,  he  plunged  into  it  again,  and  this  time 
svith  a  certain  degree  of  success.  He  found  the  lino 
svhich  had  before  gleamed  out,  and  vanished  again, 
and  which  now  started  out  in  strong  relief ;  even  as 
svhen  sometimes  we  see  a  certain  arrangement  of  stars 
in  the  heavens,  and  again  lose  it,  by  not  seeing  its  in 
dividual  stars  in  the  same  relation  as  before ;  even  so, 
looking  at  the  manuscript  in  a  different  way,  Septim- 
ius  saw  this  fragment  of  a  sentence,  and  saw,  more 
over,  what  was  necessary  to  give  it  a  certain  meaning. 
"  Set  the  root  in  a  grave,  and  wait  for  what  shall  blos 
som.  It  will  be  very  rich,  and  full  of  juice."  This 
was  the  purport,  he  now  felt  sure,  of  the  sentence  he 
had  lighted  upon  ;  and  he  took  it  to  refer  to  the  mode 
of  producing  something  that  was  essential  to  the  thing 
to  be  concocted.  It  might  have  only  a  moral  being ; 
or,  as  is  generally  the  case,  the  moral  and  physical 
truth  went  hand  in  hand. 

AVhile  Septimius  was  busying  himself  in  this  way, 
the  summer  advanced,  and  with  it  there  appeared  a 
new  character,  making  her  way  into  our  pages.  This 
was  a  slender  and  pale  girl,  whom  Septimius  was  once 
startled  to  find,  when  he  ascended  his  hill-top,  to  take 
his  walk  to  and  fro  upon  the  accustomed  path,  which 
he  had  now  worn  deep. 

voi*  xi.  19 


290  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

What  was  stranger,  she  sat  down  close  beside  the 
grave,  which  none  but  he  and  the  minister  knew  to  be 
a  grave  ;  that  little  hillock,  which  he  had  levelled 
a  little,  and  had  planted  with  various  flowers  and 
shrubs  ;  which  the  summer  had  fostered  into  richness, 
the  poor  young  man  below  having  contributed  what 
he  could,  and  tried  to  render  them  as  beautiful  as  he 
might,  in  remembrance  of  his  own  beauty.  Septimius 
wished  to  conceal  the  fact  of  its  being  a  grave  :  not 
that  he  was  tormented  with  any  sense  that  he  had 
done  wrong  in  shooting  the  young  man,  which  had 
been  done  in  fair  battle  ;  but  still  it  was  not  the  pleas- 
antest  of  thoughts,  that  he  had  laid  a  beautiful  human 
creature,  so  fit  for  the  enjoyment  of  life,  there,  when 
his  own  dark  brow,  his  own  troubled  breast,  might 
better,  he  could  not  but  acknowledge,  have  been  cov 
ered  up  there.  [Perhaps  there  might  sometimes  be 
something  fantastically  gay  in  the  language  and  .be 
havior  of  the  girl.'} 

Well ;  but  then,  on  this  flower  and  shrub-disguised 
grave,  sat  this  unknown  form  of  a  girl,  with  a  slender, 
pallid,  melancholy  grace  about  her,  simply  dressed  in 
a  dark  attire,  which  she  drew  loosely  about  her.  At 
first  glimpse,  Septimius  fancied  that  it  might  be  Kose ; 
but  it  needed  only  a  glance  to  undeceive  him  ;  her  fig 
ure  was  of  another  character  from  the  vigorous,  though 
slight  and  elastic  beauty  of  Rose ;  this  was  a  drooping 
grace,  and  when  he  came  near  enough  to  see  her  face, 
he  saw  that  those  large,  dark,  melancholy  eyes,  with 
which  she  had  looked  at  him,  had  never  met  his  gaze 
before. 

"  Good-morrow,  fair  maiden,"  said  Septimius,  with 
such  courtesy  as  he  knew  how  to  use  (which,  to  say 
truth,  was  of  a  rustic  order,  his  way  of  life  having 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  291 

brought  him  little  into  female  society).  "There  is  a 
nice  air  here  on  the  hill-top,  this  sultry  morning  below 
the  hill ! " 

As  he  spoke,  he  continued  to  look  woncleringly  at 
the  strange  maiden,  half  fancying  that  she  might  be 
something  that  had  grown  up  out  of  the  grave  ;  so  un 
expected  she  was,  so  simply  unlike  anything  that  had 
before  come  there. 

The  girl  did  not  speak  to  him,  but  as  she  sat  by  the 
grave  she  kept  weeding  out  the  little  white  blades  of 
faded  autumn  grass  and  yellow  pine-spikes,  peering 
into  the  soil  as  if  to  see  what  it  was  all  made  of,  and 
everything  that  was  growing  there  ;  and  in  truth, 
whether  by  Septiinius's  care  or  no,  there  seemed  to  be 
several  kinds  of  flowers,  —  those  little  asters  that 
abound  everywhere,  and  golden  flowers,  such  as  au 
tumn  supplies  with  abundance.  She  seemed  to  be  in 
quest  of  something,  and  several  times  plucked  a  leaf 
and  examined  it  carefully ;  then  threw  it  down  again, 
and  shook  her  head.  At  last  she  lifted  up  her  pale 
face,  and,  fixing  her  eyes  quietly  on  Septirnius,  spoke : 
"  It  is  not  here !  " 

A  very  sweet  voice  it  was,  —  plaintive,  low,  —  and 
she  spoke  to  Septimius  as  if  she  were  familiar  with 
him,  and  had  something  to  do  with  him.  He  was 
greatly  interested,  not  being  able  to  imagine  who  the 
strange  girl  was,  or  whence  she  came,  or  what,  of  all 
things,  could  be  her  reason  for  coming  and  sitting 
down  by  this  grave,  and  apparently  botanizing  upon 
it,  in  quest  of  some  particular  plant. 

"  Are  you  in  search  of  flowers  ?  "  asked  Septirnius. 
"  This  is  but  a  barren  spot  for  them,  and  this  is  not  a 
good  season.  In  the  meadows,  and  along  the  margin 
of  the  watercourses,  you  might  find  the  fringed  gen- 


292  SEPT  I  Ml  US   FELT  ON. 

tian  at  this  time.  In  the  woods  there  are  several 
pretty  flowers,  —  the  side-saddle  flower,  the  anemone  ; 
violets  are  plentiful  in  spring,  and  make  the  whole 
hill-side  blue.  But  this  hill-top,  with  its  soil  strewn 
over  a  heap  of  pebble-stones,  is  no  place  for  flowers." 

"  The  soil  is  fit,"  said  the  maiden,  "  but  the  flower 
has  not  sprung  up." 

"  What  flower  do  you  speak  of  ?  "  asked  Septimius, 

"  One  that  is  not  here,"  said  the  pale  girl.  "  No 
matter.  I  will  look  for  it  again  next  spring." 

"Do  you,  then,  dwell  hereabout?"  inquired  Sep 
timius. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  with  a  look  of  surprise  j 
"  where  else  should  I  dwell  ?  My  home  is  on  this  hill 
top." 

It  not  a  little  startled  Septimius,  as  may  be  sup. 
posed,  to  find  his  paternal  inheritance,  of  which  he 
and  his  forefathers  had  been  the  only  owners  since  the 
world  began  (for  they  held  it  by  an  Indian  deed), 
claimed  as  a  home  and  abiding-place  by  this  fair,  pale, 
strange-acting  maiden,  who  spoke  as  if  she  had  as 
much  right  there  as  if  she  had  grown  up  out  of  the 
soil  like  one  of  the  wild,  indigenous  flowers  which  she 
had  been  gazing  at  and  handling.  However  that 
might  be,  the  maiden  seemed  now  about  to  depart,  ris 
ing,  giving  a  farewell  touch  or  two  to  the  little  ver- 
clant  hillock,  which  looked  much  the  neater  for  her 
ministrations. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  said  Septimius,  looking  at  her 
in  wonder. 

"  For  a  time,"  said  she. 

"  And  shall  I  see  you  again?  "  asked  he. 

"  Surely,"  said  the  maiden,  "  this  is  my  walk,  along 
the  brow  of  the  hill."  ••'*•• 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  293 

It  again  smote  Septimius  with  a  strange  thrill  of 
surprise  to  find  the  walk  which  he  himself  had  made, 
treading  it,  and  smoothing  it,  and  beating  it  down 
with  the  pressure  of  his  continual  feet,  from  the  time 
when  the  tufted  grass  made  the  sides  all  uneven,  un 
til  now,  when  it  was  such  a  pathway  as  you  may  see 
through  a  wood,  or  over  a  field,  where  many  feet  pass 
every  day,  —  to  find  this  track  and  exemplification  of 
his  own  secret  thoughts  and  plans  and  emotions,  this 
writing  of  his  body,  impelled  by  the  struggle  and 
movement  of  his  soul,  claimed  as  her  own  by  a  strange 
girl  with  melancholy  eyes  and  voice,  who  seemed  to 
have  such  a  sad  familiarity  with  him. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  come  here,"  said  he,  endeav 
oring  at  least  to  keep  such  hold  on  his  own  property 
as  was  implied  in  making  a  hospitable  surrender  of 
it  to  another. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "a  person  should  always  be 
welcome  to  his  own." 

A  faint  smile  seemed  to  pass  over  her  face  as  she 
said  this,  vanishing,  however,  immediately  into  the 
melancholy  of  her  usual  expression.  She  went  along 
Septimius's  path,  while  he  stood  gazing  at  her  till  she 
reached  the  brow  where  it  sloped  towards  Robert  Hag- 
burn's  house ;  then  she  turned,  and  seemed  to  wave  a 
slight  farewell  towards  the  }Toung  man,  and  began  to 
descend.  When  her  figure  had  entirely  sunk  behind 
the  brow  of  the  hill,  Septimius  slowly  followed  along 
the  ridge,  meaning  to  watch  from  that  elevated  station 
the  course  she  would  take ;  although,  indeed,  he  would 
not  have  been  surprised  if  he  had  seen  nothing,  no 
trace  of  her  in  the  whole  nearness  or  distance  ;  in 
short,  if  she  had  been  a  freak,  an  illusion,  of  a  hard 
working  mind  that  had  put  itself  ajar  by  deeply  brood- 


294  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ing  on  abstruse  matters,  an  illusion  of  eyes  that  he  had 
tried  too  much  by  poring  over  the  inscrutable  manu 
script,  and  of  intellect  that  was  mystified  and  bewil 
dered  by  trying  to  grasp  things  that  could  not  be 
grasped.  A  thing  of  witchcraft,  a  sort  of  fungus- 
growth  out  of  the  grave,  an  un substantiality  alto 
gether  ;  although,  certainly,  she  had  weeded  the  grave 
with  bodily  fingers,  at  all  events.  Still  he  had  so 
much  of  the  hereditary  mysticism  of  his  race  in  him, 
that  he  might  have  held  her  supernatural,  only  that 
on  reaching  the  brow  of  the  hill  he  saw  her  feet  ap 
proach  the  dwelling  of  Robert  Hagburn's  mother,  who, 
moreover,  appeared  at  the  threshold  beckoning  her  to 
come,  with  a  motherly,  hospitable  air,  that  denoted  she 
knew  the  strange  girl,  and  recognized  her  as  human. 

It  did  not  lessen  Septimius's  surprise,  however,  to 
think  that  such  a  singular  being  was  established  in  the 
neighborhood  without  his  knowledge ;  considered  as  a 
real  occurrence  of  this  world,  it  seemed  even  more  un 
accountable  than  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of  ghostology 
and  witchcraft.  Continually  through  the  day  the  in 
cident  kept  introducing  its  recollection  among  his 
thoughts  and  studies ;  continually,  as  he  paced  along 
his  path,  this  form  seemed  to  hurry  along  by  his  sido 
on  the  track  that  she  had  claimed  for  her  own,  and  he 
thought  of  her  singular  threat  or  promise,  whichever 
it  were  to  be  held,  that  he  should  have  a  companion 
there  in  future.  In  the  decline  of  the  day,  when  he 
met  the  schoolmistress  coming  home  from  her  little 
seminary,  he  snatched  the  first  opportunity  to  mention 
the  apparition  of  the  morning,  and  ask  Rose  if  she 
knew  anything  of  her. 

"Very  little,"  said  Rose,  "but  she  is  flesh  and 
blood,  of  that  you  may  be  quite  sure.  She  is  a  gir} 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  295 

who  has  been  shut  up  in  Boston  by  the  siege ;  perhaps 
a  daughter  of  one  of  the  British  officers,  and  her 
health  being  frail,  she  requires  better  air  than  they 
have  there,  and  so  permission  was  got  for  her,  from 
General  Washington,  to  come  and  live  in  the  country ; 
as  any  one  may  see,  our  liberties  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  this  poor  brain-stricken  girl.  And  Robert  Hag- 
burn,  having  to  bring  a  message  from  camp  to  the  se 
lectmen  here,  had  it  in  charge  to  bring  the  girl,  whom 
his  mother  has  taken  to  board." 

"  Then  the  poor  thing  is  crazy  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  A  little  brain-touched,  that  is  all,"  replied  Rose, 
"  owing  to  some  grief  that  she  has  had ;  but  she  is 
quite  harmless,  Robert  was  told  to  sa}^,  and  needs  lit 
tle  or  no  watching,  and  will  get  a  kind  of  fantastic 
happiness  for  herself,  if  only  she  is  allowed  to  ramble 
about  at  her  pleasure.  If  thwarted,  she  might  be  very 
wild  and  miserable." 

"  Have  you  spoken  with  her  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  A  word  or  two  this  morning,  as  I  was  going  to  my 
school,"  said  Rose.  "She  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
smiled,  and  said  we  would  be  friends,  and  that  I 
should  show  her  where  the  flowers  grew ;  for  that  she 
had  a  little  spot  of  her  own  that  she  wanted  to  plant 
with  them.  And  she  asked  nie  if  the  Sanguined  san- 
guinissima  grew  hereabout.  I  should  not  have  taken 
her  to  be  ailing  in  her  wits,  only  for  a  kind  of  free- 
spokenness  and  familiarity,  as  if  we  had  been  ac 
quainted  a  long  while ;  or  as  if  she  had  lived  in  some 
country  where  there  are  no  forms  and  impediments  in 
people's  getting  acquainted." 

"  Did  you  like  her  ?  '   inquired  Septimius. 

"  Yes ;  almost  loved  her  at  first  sight,"  answered 
Rose,  "  and  I  hope  may  do  her  some  little  good,  poo* 


296  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

thing,  being  of  her  own  age,  and  the  only  companion, 
hereabouts,  whom  she  is  likely  to  find.  But  she  has 
been  well  educated,  and  is  a  lady,  that  is  easy  to  see." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  Septimius,  "but  I  fear  I 
shall  be  a  good  deal  interrupted  in  my  thoughts  and 
studies,  if  she  insists  on  haunting  my  hill-top  as  much 
as  she  tells  me.  My  meditations  are  perhaps  of  a  lit 
tle  too  much  importance  to  be  shoved  aside  for  the 
sake  of  gratifying  a  crazy  girl's  fantasies." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  hard  thing  to  say !  "  exclaimed  Rose, 
shocked  at  her  lover's  cold  egotism,  though  not  giving 
it  that  title.  "  Let  the  poor  thing  glide  quietly  along 
in  the  path,  though  it  be  yours.  Perhaps,  after  a 
while,  she  will  help  your  thoughts." 

"  My  thoughts,"  said  Septimius,  "  are  of  a  kind  that 
can  have  no  help  from  any  one ;  if  from  any,  it  would 
only  be  from  some  wise,  long-studied,  and  experienced 
scientific  man,  who  could  enlighten  me  as  to  the  bases 
and  foundation  of  things,  as  to  mystic  writings,  as  to 
chemical  elements,  as  to  the  mysteries  of  language,  as 
to  the  principles  and  system  on  which  we  were  created. 
Methinks  these  are  not  to  be  taught  me  by  a  girl 
touched  in  the  wits." 

"  I  fear,"  replied  Rose  Garfield  with  gravity,  and 
drawing  imperceptibly  apart  from  him,  "  that  110 
woman  can  help  you  much.  You  despise  woman's 
thought,  and  have  no  need  of  her  affection." 

Septimius  said  something  soft  and  sweet,  and  in  a 
measure  true,  in  regard  to  the  necessity  he  felt  for  the 
affection  and  sympathy  of  one  woman  at  least  —  the 
one  now  by  his  side  —  to  keep  his  life  warm  and  to 
make  the  empty  chambers  of  his  heart  comfortable. 
But  even  while  he  spoke,  there  was  something  that 
dragged  upon  his  tongue ;  for  he  felt  that  the  solitary 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  297 

pursuit  in  which  he  was  engaged  carried  him  apart 
from  the  sympathy  of  which  he  spoke,  and  that  he  was 
concentrating  his  efforts  and  interest  entirely  upon 
himself,  and  that  the  more  he  succeeded  the  more  re 
motely  he  should  be  carried  away,  and  that  his  final 
triumph  would  be  the  complete  seclusion  of  himself 
from  all  that  breathed,  —  the  converting  him,  from  an 
interested  actor  into  a  cold  and  disconnected  spectator 
of  all  mankind's  warm  and  sympathetic  life.  So,  as 
it  turned  out,  this  interview  with  Rose  was  one  of 
those  in  which,  coming  no  one  knows  from  whence,  a 
nameless  cloud  springs  up  between  two  lovers,  and 
keeps  them  apart  from  one  another  by  a  cold,  sullen 
spell.  Usually,  however,  it  requires  only  one  word, 
spoken  out  of  the  heart,  to  break  that  spell,  and  com 
pel  the  invisible,  unsympathetic  medium  which  the 
enemy  of  love  has  stretched  cunningly  between  them, 
to  vanish,  and  let  them  come  closer  together  than  ever  ; 
but,  in  this  case,  it  might  be  that  the  love  was  the 
illusive  state,  and  the  estrangement  the  real  truth,  the 
disenchanted  verity.  At  all  events,  when  the  feeling 
passed  away,  in  Rose's  heart  there  was  no  reaction,  no 
warmer  love,  as  is  generally  the  case.  As  for  Sep- 
timius,  he  had  other  things  to  think  about,  and  when 
he  next  met  Rose  Garfield,  had  forgotten  that  he  had 
been  sensible  of  a  little  wounded  feeling,  on  her  part, 
at  parting. 

Bv  dint  of  continued  poring  over  the  manuscript, 
Septimius  now  began  to  comprehend  that  it  was  writ 
ten  in  a  singular  mixture  of  Latin  and  ancient  Eng 
lish,  with  constantly  recurring  paragraphs  of  what  he 
was  convinced  was  a  mystic  writing ;  and  these  recur 
ring  passages  of  complete  unintelligibility  seemed  to 
be  necessary  to  the  proper  understanding  of  any  part 


298  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

of  the  document.  What  was  discoverable  was  quaint, 
curious,  but  thwarting  and  perplexing,  because  it 
seemed  to  imply  some  very  great  purpose,  only  to  be 
brought  out  by  what  was  hidden. 

Septimius  had  read,  in  the  old  college  library  dur 
ing  his  pupilage,  a  work  on  ciphers  and  cryptic  writ 
ing,  but  being  drawn  to  it  only  by  his  curiosity  respect 
ing  whatever  was  hidden,  and  not  expecting  ever  to 
use  his  knowledge,  he  had  obtained  only  the  barest 
idea  of  what  was  necessary  to  the  deciphering  a  secret 
passage.  Judging  by  what  he  could  pick  out,  he  would 
have  thought  the  whole  essay  was  upon  the  moral  con 
duct  ;  all  parts  of  that  he  could  make  out  seeming  to 
refer  to  a  certain  ascetic  rule  of  life ;  to  denial  of 
pleasures ;  these  topics  being  repeated  and  insisted  on 
everywhere,  although  without  any  discoverable  refer 
ence  to  religious  or  moral  motives  ;  and  always  when 
the  author  seemed  verging  towards  a  definite  purpose, 
he  took  refuge  in  his  cipher.  Yet  withal,  imperfectly 
(or  not  at  all,  rather)  as  Septimius  could  comprehend 
its  purport,  this  strange  writing  had  a  mystic  influ 
ence,  that  wrought  upon  his  imagination,  and  with  the 
late  singular  incidents  of  his  life,  his  continual  thought 
on  this  one  subject,  his  walk  on  the  hill-top,  lonely, 
or  only  interrupted  by  the  pale  shadow  of  a  girl,  com 
bined  to  set  him  outside  of  the  living  world.  Rose 
Garfield  perceived  it,  knew  and  felt  that  he  was  glid 
ing  away  from  her,  and  met  him  with  a  reserve  which 
she  could  not  overcome. 

It  was  a  pity  that  his  early  friend,  Robert  Hagburn, 
could  not  at  present  have  any  influence  over  him,  hav 
ing  now  regularly  joined  the  Continental  Army,  and 
being  engaged  in  the  expedition  of  Arnold  against 
Quebec*  Indeed,  this  war,  in  which  the  country  was 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  299 

so  earnestly  and  enthusiastically  engaged,  had  perhaps 
an  influence  on  Septimius's  state  of  mind,  for  it  put 
everybody  into  an  exaggerated  and  unnatural  state, 
united  enthusiasms  of  all  sorts,  heightened  "everybody 
either  into  its  own  heroism  or  into  the  peculiar  mad 
ness  to  which  each  person  was  inclined ;  and  Septim- 
ius  walked  so  much  the  more  wildly  on  his  lonely 
course,  because  the  people  were  going  enthusiastically 
on  another.  In  times  of  revolution  and  public  disturb 
ance  all  absurdities  are  more  unrestrained;  the  meas 
ure  of  calm  sense,  the  habits,  the  orderly  decency,  are 
partially  lost.  More  people  become  insane,  I  should 
suppose  ;  offences  against  public  morality,  female  li 
cense,  are  more  numerous  ;  suicides,  murders,  all  un 
governable  outbreaks  of  men's  thoughts,  embodying 
themselves  in  wild  acts,  take  place  more  frequently, 
and  with  less  horror  to  the  lookers-on.  So  [with]  Sep- 
timius  ;  there  was  not,  as  there  would  have  been  at 
an  ordinary  time,  the  same  calmness  and  truth  in  the 
public  observation,  scrutinizing  everything  with  its 
keen  criticism,  in  that  time  of  seething  opinions  and 
overturned  principles ;  a  new  time  was  coming,  and 
Septimius's  phase  of  novelty  attracted  less  attention 
so  far  as  it  was  known. 

So  he  continued  to  brood  over  the  manuscript  in 
his  study,  and  to  hide  it  under  lock  and  key  in  a  re 
cess  of  the  wall,  as  if  it  were  a  secret  of  murder ;  to 
walk,  too,  on  his  hill-top,  where  at  sunset  always  came 
the  pale,  crazy  maiden,  who  still  seemed  to  wratch  the 
little  hillock  with  a  pertinacious  care  that  was  strange 
to  Septimius.  By  and  by  came  the  winter  and  the 
deep  snows ;  and  even  then,  unwilling  to  give  up  his 
habitual  place  of  exercise,  the  inonotonousness  of  which 
promoted  his  wish  to  keep  before  his  mind  one  subject 


300  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

of  tliought,  Septimius  wore  a  path  through  the  snow, 
and  still  walked  there.  Here,  however,  he  lost  for  a 
time  the  companionship  of  the  girl ;  for  when  the  first 
snow  came,  she  shivered,  and  looked  at  its  white  heap 
over  the  hillock,  and  said  to  Septimius,  "  I  will  look 
for  it  again  in  spring." 

[Septimlus  is  at  the  point  of  despair  for  want  of  a 
guide  in  his  studies.} 

The  winter  swept  over,  and  spring  was  just  begin 
ning  to  spread  its  green  flush  over  the  more  favored 
exposures  of  the  landscape,  although  on  the  north  side 
of  stone-walls,  and  the  northern  nooks  of  hills,  there 
were  still  the  remnants  of  snow-drifts.  Septimius' s 
hill-top,  which  was  of  a  soil  which  quickly  rid  itself  of 
moisture,  now  began  to  be  a  genial  place  of  resort  to 
him,  and  he  was  one  morning  taking  his  walk  there, 
meditating  upon  the  still  insurmountable  difficulties 
which  interposed  themselves  against  the  interpretation 
of  the  manuscript,  yet  feeling  the  new  gush  of  spring 
bring  hope  to  him,  and  the  energy  and  elasticity  for 
new  effort.  Thus  pacing  to  and  fro,  he  was  surprised, 
as  he  turned  at  the  extremity  of  his  walk,  to  see  a 
figure  advancing  towards  him;  not  that  of  the  pale 
maiden  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  see  there,  but  a 
figure  as  widely  different  as  possible.  [He  sees  a 
spider  dangling  from  his  toeb,  and  examijies  him 
minutely.'}  It  was  that  of  a  short,  broad,  somewhat 
elderly  man,  dressed  in  a  surtout  that  had  a  half-mili 
tary  air ;  the  cocked  hat  of  the  period,  well  worn,  and 
having  a  fresher  spot  in  it,  whence,  perhaps,  a  cockade 
had  been  recently  taken  off  ;  and  this  personage  car 
ried  a  well  blackened  German  pipe  in  his  hand,  which, 
as  he  walked,  he  applied  to  his  lips,  and  puffed  out 
volumes  of  smoke,  filling  the  pleasant  western  breeze 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTOX  301 

with  the  fragrance  of  some  excellent  Virginia.  He 
came  slowly  along',  and  Septimius,  slackening  his  pace 
a  little,  came  as  slowly  to  meet  him,  feeling  somewhat 
indignant,  to  be  sure,  that  anybody  should  intrude  on 
his  sacred  hill :  until  at  last  they  met,  as  it  happened, 
close  by  the  memorable  little  hillock,  on  which  the 
grass  and  flower-leaves  also  had  begun  to  sprout.  The 
stranger  looked  keenly  at  Septimius,  made  a  careless 
salute  by  putting  his  hand  up,  and  took  the  pipe  from 
his  mouth. 

"  Mr.  Septimius  Felton,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  he. 

"That  is  my  name,"  replied  Septimius. 

"I  am  Doctor  Jabez  Portsoaken,"  said  the  stranger, 
"late  surgeon  of  his  Majesty's  sixteenth  regiment, 
which  I  quitted  when  his  Majesty's  army  quitted  Bos 
ton,  being  desirous  of  trying  my  fortunes  in  your 
country,  and  giving  the  people  the  benefit  of  my  sci 
entific  knowledge  ;  also  to  practise  some  new  modes 
of  medical  science,  which  I  could  not  so  well  do  in 
the  army." 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,  Doctor  Jabez  Port 
soaken,"  said  Septimius,  a  little  confused  and  bewil 
dered,  so  unused  had  he  become  to  the  society  of 


strangers. 


"  And  as  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  who  had  a 
very  rough,  abrupt  way  of  speaking,  "  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  a  favor  done  me." 

44  Have  you,  sir?  "  said  Septimius,  who  was  quite 
sure  that  he  had  never  seen  the  doctor's  uncouth  fig 
ure  before. 

44  Oh,  ay,  me,"  said  the  doctor,  puffing  coolly,  — 
14  me,  in  the  person  of  my  niece,  a  sickly,  poor,  ner 
vous  little  thing,  who  is  very  fond  of  walking  on  your 
hill-top,  and  whom  you  do  not  send  away," 


302  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  You  are  the  uncle  of  Sibyl  Dacy  ? "  said  Sep. 
timius. 

"  Even  so,  her  mother's  brother,"  said  the  doctor, 
with  a  grotesque  bow.  "  So,  being  on  a  visit,  the  first 
that  the  siege  allowed  me  to  pay,  to  see  how  the  girl 
was  getting  on,  I  take  the  opportunity  to  pay  my 
respects  to  you ;  the  more  that  I  understand  you  to 
be  a  young  man  of  some  learning,  and  it  is  not  often 
that  one  meets  with  such  in  this  country." 

"  No,"  said  Septimius,  abruptly,  for  indeed  he  had 
half  a  suspicion  that  this  queer  Doctor  Portsoaken  was 
not  altogether  sincere,  —  that,  in  short,  he  was  mak 
ing  game  of  him.  "  You  have  been  misinformed.  I 
know  nothing  whatever  that  is  worth  knowing." 

"  Oho !  "  said  the  doctor,  with  a  long  puff  of  smoke 
out  of  his  pipe.  "  If  you  are  convinced  of  that,  you 
are  one  of  the  wisest  men  I  have  met  with,  young  as 
you  are.  I  must  have  been  twice  your  age  before  I 
got  so  far ;  and  even  now,  I  am  sometimes  fool  enough 
to  doubt  the  only  thing  I  was  ever  sure  of  knowing. 
But  come,  you  make  me  only  the  more  earnest  to  col 
logue  with  you.  If  we  put  both  our  shortcomings  to 
gether,  they  may  make  up  an  item  of  positive  knowl 
edge." 

"  What  use  can  one  make  of  abortive  thoughts  ?  " 
said  Septimius. 

"  Do  your  speculations  take  a  scientific  turn  ?  "  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  There  I  can  meet  you  with  as 
much  false  knowledge  and  empiricism  as  you  can  bring 
for  the  life  of  you.  Have  you  ever  tried  to  study 
spiders  ?  —  there  is  my  strong  point  now  !  I  have 
hung  my  whole  interest  in  life  on  a  spider's  web." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  them,  sir,"  said  Septimius, 
"  except  to  crush  them  when  I  see  them  running 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  303 

across  the  floor,  or  to  brush  away  the  festoons  of  their 
webs  when  they  have  chanced  to  escape  my  Aunt 
Keziah's  broom." 

"  Crush  them !  Brush  away  their  webs  !  "  cried  the 
doctor,  apparently  in  a  rage,  and  shaking  his  pipe  at 
Septimius.  "  Sir,  it  is  sacrilege !  Yes,  it  is  worse 
than  murder.  Every  thread  of  a  spider's  web  is  worth 
more  than  a  thread  of  gold  ;  and  before  twenty  years 
are  passed,  a  housemaid  will  be  beaten  to  death  with 
her  own  broomstick  if  she  disturbs  one  of  these  sacred 
animals.  But,  come  again.  Shall  we  talk  of  botany, 
the  virtues  of  herbs  ?  " 

"  My  Aunt  Keziah  should  meet  you  there,  doctor," 
said  Septimius.  "  She  has  a  native  and  original  ac 
quaintance  with  their  virtues,  and  can  save  and  kill 
with  any  of  the  faculty.  As  for  myself,  my  studies 
have  not  turned  that  way." 

"They  ought !  they  ought !  "  said  the  doctor, looking 
meaningly  at  him.  "  The  whole  thing  lies  in  the  blos 
som  of  an  herb.  Now,  you  ought  to  begin  with  what 
lies  about  you  ;  on  this  little  hillock,  for  instance ; " 
and  looking  at  the  grave  beside  which  they  were  stand 
ing,  he  gave  it  a  kick  which  went  to  Septimius's  heart, 
there  seemed  to  be  such  a  spite  and  scorn  in  it.  kiOn 
this  hillock  I  see  some  specimens  of  plants  which 
would  be  worth  your  looking  at." 

Bending  down  towards  the  grave  as  he  spoke,  he 
seemed  to  give  closer  attention  to  what  he  saw  there  ; 
keeping  in  his  stooping  position  till  his  face  began  to 
get  a  purple  aspect,  for  the  erudite  doctor  was  of  that 
make  of  man  who  has  to  be  kept  right  side  uppermost 
with  care.  At  length  he  raised  himself,  muttering, 
u  Very  curious !  very  curious  I  " 

"  Do  you  see  anything  remarkable  there  ? "  asked 
Septimius,  with  some  interest. 


304  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  bluntly.  "  No  matter  what  J 
The  time  will  come  when  you  may  like  to  know  it." 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  to  my  residence  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  Doctor  Portsoaken  ?  "  asked  Septirn- 
ius.  "  I  am  not  a  learned  man,  and  have  little  or  no 
title  to  converse  with  one,  except  a  sincere  desire  to 
be  wiser  than  I  am.  If  you  can  be  moved  on  such 
terms  to  give  me  your  companionship,  I  shall  be 
thankful." 

"  Sir,  I  am  with  you,"  said  Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  know,  in  the  sure  belief  (for  I  will 
be  frank  with  you)  that  it  will  add  to  the  amount  of 
dangerous  folly  now  in  your  mind,  and  help  you  on 
the  way  to  ruin.  Take  your  choice,  therefore,  whether 
to  know  me  further  or  not." 

"  I  neither  shrink  nor  fear,  —  neither  hope  much," 
said  Septimius,  quietly.  "  Anything  that  you  can  com 
municate  —  if  anything  you  can  —  I  shall  fearlessly 
receive,  and  return  you  such  thanks  as  it  may  be 
found  to  deserve." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  down  the  hill,  by  the 
steep  path  that  descended  abruptly  upon  the  rear  of 
his  bare  and  unadorned  little  dwelling ;  the  doctor  fol 
lowing  with  much  foul  language  (for  he  had  a  terri 
ble  habit  of  swearing)  at  the  difficulties  of  the  way, 
to  which  his  short  legs  were  ill  adapted.  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah  met  them  at  the  door,  and  looked  sharply  at  the 
doctor,  who  returned  the  gaze  with  at  least  as  much 
keenness,  muttering  between  his  teeth,  as  he  did  so  •; 
and  to  say  the  truth,  Aunt  Keziah  was  as  worthy  of 
being  sworn  at  as  any  woman  could  well  be,  for  what 
ever  she  might  have  been  in  her  younger  days,  she 
was  at  this  time  as  strange  a  mixture  of  an  Indian 
squaw  and  herb  doctress,  with  the  crabbed  old  maid, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  305 

and  a  mingling  of  the  witch-aspect  running  through 
all,  as  could  well  be  imagined  ;  and  she  had  a  hand 
kerchief  over  her  head,  and  she  was  of  hue  a  dusky 
yellow,  and  she  looked  very  cross.  As  Septimius 
ushered  the  doctor  into  his  study,  and  was  about  to 
follow  him,  Aunt  Keziah  drew  him  back. 

44  Septimius,  who  is.  this  you  have  brought  here  ?" 
asked  she. 

44  A  man  I  have  met  on  the  hill,"  answered  her 
nephew ;  4k  a  Doctor  Portsoaken  he  calls  himself,  from 
the  old  country.  He  says  he  has  knowledge  of  herbs 
and  other  mysteries ;  in  your  own  line,  it  may  be.  If 
you  want  to  talk  with  him,  give  the  man  his  dinner, 
and  find  out  what  there  is  in  him." 

44  And  what  do  you  want  of  him  yourself,  Septim 
ius?"  asked  she. 

"  I  ?  Nothing !  —  that  is  to  say,  I  expect  nothing," 
said  Septimius.  44But  I  am  astray,  seeking  every 
where,  and  so  I  reject  no  hint,  no  promise,  no  faint 
est  possibility  of  aid  that  I  may  find  anywhere.  I 
judge  this  man  to  be  a  quack,  but  I  judge  the  same  of 
the  most  learned  man  of  his  profession,  or  any  other ; 
and  there  is  a  roughness  about  this  man  that  may  indi 
cate  a  little  more  knowledge  than  if  he  were  smoother. 

O 

So,  as  he  threw  himself  in  my  way,  I  take  him  in." 

44  A  grim,  ugly-looking  old  wretch  as  ever  I  saw," 
muttered  Aunt  Keziah.  44  AVell,  he  shall  have  his  din 
ner  ;  and  if  he  likes  to  talk  about  yarb-dishes,  I  'm  with 
him." 

So  Septimius  followed  the  doctor  into  his  study, 
where  he  found  him  with  the  sword  in  his  hand,  which 
he  had  taken  from  over  the  mantel-piece,  and  was  hold 
ing  it  drawn,  examining  the  hilt  and  blade  with  great 
minuteness ;  the  hilt  being  wrought  in  openwork,  with 

VOL.  XI.  20 


306  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

certain  heraldic  devices,  doubtless  belonging  to  the 
family  of  its  former  wearer. 

"  I  have  seen  this  weapon  before,"  said  the  doctor. 

"It  may  well  be,"  said  Septimius.  "It  was  once 
worn  by  a  person  who  served  in  the  army  of  your  king." 

"  And  you  took  it  from  him  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  If  I  did,  it  was  in  no  way  that  I  need  be  ashamed 
of,  or  afraid  to  tell,  though  I  choose  rather  not  to 
speak  of  it,"  answered  Septimius. 

"  Have  you,  then,  no  desire  nor  interest  to  know 
the  family,  the  personal  history,  the  prospects,  of  him 
who  once  wore  this  sword,  and  who  will  never  draw 
sword  again  ?  "  inquired  Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  Poor 
Cyril  Norton !  There  was  a  singular  story  attached  to 
that  young  man,  sir,  and  a  singular  mystery  he  carried 
about  with  him,  the  end  of  which,  perhaps,  is  not  yet." 

Septimius  would  have  been,  indeed,  well  enough 
pleased  to  learn  the  mystery  which  he  himself  had  seen 
that  there  was  about  the  man  whom  he  slew ;  but  he 
was  afraid  that  some  question  might  be  thereby  started 
about  the  secret  document  that  he  had  kept  possession 
of ;  and  he  therefore  would  have  wished  to  avoid  the 
whole  subject. 

"I  cannot  be  supposed  to  take  much  interest  in 
English  family  history.  It  is  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  at  least,  since  my  own  family  ceased  to  be  Eng 
lish,"  he  answered.  "  I  care  more  for  the  present  and 
future  than  for  the  past." 

"  It  is  all  one,"  said  the  doctor,  sitting  down,  taking 
out  a  pinch  of  tobacco  and  refilling  his  pipe. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  follow  up  the  description  of  the 
visit  of  the  eccentric  doctor  through  the  day.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  there  was  a  sort  of  charm,  or  rather  'fas 
cination,  about  the  uncouth  old  fellow,  in  spite  of  his 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  307 

strange  ways;  in  spite  of  his  constant  puffing  of  to 
bacco;  and  in  spite,  too,  of  a  constant  imbibing  of 
strong  liquor,  which  he  made  inquiries  for,  and  of 
which  the  best  that  could  be  produced  was  a  certain 
decoction,  infusion,  or  distillation,  pertaining  to  Aunt 
Keziah,  and  of  which  the  basis  was  rum,  be  it  said, 
done  up  with  certain  bitter  herbs  of  the  old  lady's  own 
gathering,  at  proper  times  of  the  moon,  and  which 
was  a  well-known  drink  to  all  who  were  favored  with 
Aunt  Keziah's  friendship;  though  there  was  a  story 
that  it  was  the  very  drink  which  used  to  be  passed 
round  at  witch-meetings,  being  brewed  from  the  Devil's 
own  recipe.  And,  in  truth,  judging  from  the  taste 
(for  I  once  took  a  sip  of  a  draught  prepared  from  the 
same  ingredients,  and  in  the  same  way),  I  should  think 
this  hellish  origin  might  be  the  veritable  one. 

["/  thought,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "  I  could  drink 
anything,  but "  — ] 

But  the  valiant  doctor  sipped,  and  sipped  again,  and 
said  with  great  blasphemy  that  it  was  the  real  stuff, 
and  only  needed  henbane  to  make  it  perfect.  Then, 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  good-sized  leathern-covered 
flask,  with  a  silver  lip  fastened  on  the  muzzle,  he  offered 
it  to  Septimius,  who  declined,  and  to  Aunt  Keziah,  who 
preferred  her  own  decoction,  and  then  drank  it  off 
himself,  with  a  loud  smack  of  satisfaction,  declaring 
it  to  be  infernally  good  brandy. 

"Well,  after  this  Septimius  and  he  talked ;  and  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of  im 
agination  in  this  queer  man,  whether  a  bodily  or  spir 
itual  influence  it  might  be  hard  to  say.  On  the  other 
hand  Septimius  had  for  a  long  while  held  little  inter 
course  with  men  ;  none  whatever  with  men  who  could 
comprehend  him ;  the  doctor,  too,  seemed  to  bring  the 


808  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

discourse  singularly  in  apposition  with  what  his  host 
was  continually  thinking  about,  for  he  conversed  on 
occult  matters,  on  people  who  had  had  the  art  of  liv 
ing  long,  and  had  only  died  at  last  by  accident,  on  the 
powers  and  qualities  of  common  herbs,  which  he  be 
lieved  to  be  so  great,  that  all  around  our  feet — grow 
ing  in  the  wild  forest,  afar  from  man,  or  following 
the  footsteps  of  man  wherever  he  fixes  his  residence, 
across  seas,  from  the  old  homesteads  whence  he  mi 
grated,  following  him  everywhere,  and  offering  them 
selves  sedulously  and  continually  to  his  notice,  while 
he  only  plucks  them  away  from  the  comparatively 
worthless  things  which  he  cultivates,  and  flings  them 
aside,  blaspheming  at  them  because  Providence  has 
sown  them  so  thickly  —  grow  what  we  call  weeds,  only 
because  all  the  generations,  from  the  beginning  of 
time  till  now,  have  failed  to  discover  their  wondrous 
virtues,  potent  for  the  curing  of  all  diseases,  potent 
for  procuring  length  of  days. 

"  Everything  good,"  said  the  doctor,  drinking  an 
other  dram  of  brandy,  "  lies  right  at  our  feet,  and  all 
we  need  is  to  gather  it  up." 

"  That 's  true,"  quoth  Keziah,  taking  just  a  little 
sup  of  her  hellish  preparation  ;  "  these  herbs  were  all 
gathered  within  a  hundred  yards  of  this  very  spot, 
though  it  took  a  wise  woman  to  find  out  their  vir 
tues." 

The  old  woman  went  off  about  her  household  du 
ties,  and  then  it  was  that  Septimius  submitted  to  the 
doctor  the  list  of  herbs  which  he  had  picked  out  of 
the  old  document,  asking  him,  as  something  apposite 
to  the  subject  of  their  discourse,  whether  he  was  ac 
quainted  with  them,  for  most  of  them  had  very  yieer 
names,  some  in  Latin,  some  in  English. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOX.  309 

The  bliiff  doctor  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  looked 
over  the  slip  of  yellow  and  worn  paper  scriitinizingly, 
puffing  tobacco-smoke  upon  it  in  great  volumes,  as  if 
thereby  to  make  its  hidden  purport  come  out ;  he  mum 
bled  to  himself,  he  took  another  sip  from  his  flask  ; 
and  then,  putting  it  down  on  the  table,  appeared  to 
meditate. 

"  This  infernal  old  document,"  said  he,  at  length, 
u  is  one  that  I  have  never  seen  before,  yet  heard  of, 
nevertheless ;  for  it  was  my  folly  in  youth  (and 
whether  I  am  any  wiser  now  is  more  than  I  take  upon 
me  to  say,  but  it  was  my  folly  then)  to  be  in  quest  of 
certain  kinds  of  secret  knowledge,  which  the  fathers 
of  science  thought  attainable.  Now,  in  several  quar 
ters,  amongst  people  with  whom  my  pursuits  brought 
me  in  contact,  I  heard  of  a  certain  recipe  which  had 
been  lost  for  a  generation  or  two,  but  which,  if  it  could 
be  recovered,  would  prove  to  have  the  true  life-giving 
potencv  in  it.  It  is  said  that  the  ancestor  of  a  great 
old  family  in  England  was  in  possession  of  this  secret, 
being  a  man  of  science,  and  the  friend  of  Friar  Bacon, 
who  was  said  to  have  concocted  it  himself,  partly  from 
the  precepts  of  his  master,  partly  from  his  own  experi 
ments,  and  it  is  thought  he  might  have  been  living  to 
this  day,  if  he  had  not  unluckily  been  killed  in  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses  ;  for  you  know  no  recipe  for  long 
life  would  be  proof  against  an  old  English  arrow,  or  a 
leaden  bullet  from  one  of  our  own  firelocks." 

"  And  what  has  been  the  history  of  the  thing  after 
his  death  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  It  was  supposed  to  be  preserved  in  the  family," 
said  the  doctor,  "  and  it  has  always  been  said,  that  the 
head  and  eldest  son  of  that  family  had  it  at  his  option 
to  live  forever,  if  he  could  only  make  up  his  mind  to 


310  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

it.  But  seemingly  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way. 
There  was  probably  a  certain  diet  and  regimen  to  be 
observed,  certain  strict  rules  of  life  to  be  kept,  a  cer 
tain  asceticism  to  be  imposed  on  the  person,  which  was 
not  quite  agreeable  to  young  men ;  and  after  the 
period  of  youth  was  passed,  the  human  frame  became 
incapable  of  being  regenerated  from  the  seeds  of  de 
cay  and  death,  which,  by  that  time,  had  become 
strongly  developed  in  it.  In  short,  while  young,  the 
possessor  of  the  secret  found  the  terms  of  immortal 
life  too  hard  to  be  accepted,  since  it  implied  the  giving 
up  of  most  of  the  things  that  made  life  desirable  in 
his  view ;  and  when  he  came  to  a  more  reasonable 
mind,  it  was  too  late.  And  so,  in  all  the  generations 
since  Friar  Bacon's  time,  the  Nortons  have  been  born, 
and  enjoyed  their  young  days,  and  worried  through 
their  manhood,  and  tottered  through  their  old  age  (un 
less  taken  off  sooner  by  sword,  arrow,  ball,  fever,  or 
what  not),  and  died  in  their  beds,  like  men  that  had 
no  such  option ;  and  so  this  old  yellow  paper  has  done 
not  the  least  good  to  any  mortal.  Neither  do  I  see 
how  it  can  do  any  good  to  you,  since  you  know  not 
the  rules,  moral  or  dietetic,  that  are  essential  to  its  ef 
fect.  But  how  did  you  come  by  it?  " 

"It  matters  not  how,"  said  Septimius,  gloomily. 
"  Enough  that  I  am  its  rightful  possessor  and  inheri 
tor.  Can  you  read  these  old  characters  ?  " 

"  Most  of  them,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  but  let  me  tell 
you,  my  young  friend,  I  have  no  faith  whatever  in 
this  secret ;  and,  having  meddled  with  such  things  my 
self,  I  ought  to  know.  The  old  physicians  and  chem 
ists  had  strange  ideas  of  the  virtues  of  plants,  drugs, 
and  minerals,  and  equally  strange  fancies  as  to  the 
way  of  getting  those  virtues  into  action.  They 


SEPTTMIUS  FELTON.  311 

throw  a  hundred  different  potencies  into  a  caldron  to 
gether,  and  put  them  on  the  fire,  and  expect  to  brew 
a  potency  containing  all  their  potencies,  and  having  a 
different  virtue  of  its  own.  Whereas,  the  most  likely 
result  would  be  that  they  would  counteract  one  an 
other,  and  the  concoction  be  of  no  virtue  at  all;  or 
else  some  more  powerful  ingredient  would  tincture 
the  whole." 

He  read  the  paper  again,  and  continued  :  — 

"  I  see  nothing  else  so  remarkable  in  this  recipe,  as 
that  it  is  chiefly  made  up  of  some  of  the  commonest 
things  that  grow ;  plants  that  you  set  your  foot  upon 
at  your  very  threshold,  in  your  garden,  in  your  wood- 
walks,  wherever  you  go.  I  doubt  not  old  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah  knows  them,  and  very  likely  she  has  brewed 
them  up  in  that  hell-drink,  the  remembrance  of  which 
is  still  rankling  in  my  stomach.  I  thought  I  had  swal 
lowed  the  Devil  himself,  whom  the  old  woman  had 
been  boiling  down.  It  would  be  curious  enough  if  the 
hideous  decoction  was  the  same  as  old  Friar  Bacon 
and  his  acolyte  discovered  by  their  science !  One  in 
gredient,  however,  one  of  those  plants,  I  scarcely  think 
the  old  lady  can  have  put  into  her  pot  of  Devil's 
elixir ;  for  it  is  a  rare  plant,  that  does  not  grow  in 
these  parts." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  Sanyuinea  sanguinissima"  said  the  doctor ;  "  it 
has  no  vulgar  name  ;  but  it  produces  a  very  beautiful 
flower,  which  I  have  never  seen,  though  some  seeds  of 
it  were  sent  me  by  a  learned  friend  in  Siberia.  The 
others,  divested  of  their  Latin  names,  are  as  common 
as  plantain,  pig-weed,  and  burdock ;  and  it  stands  to 
reason  that,  if  vegetable  Nature  has  any  such  wonder 
fully  efficacious  medicine  in  store  for  men,  and  means 


312  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

them  to  use  it,  she  would  have  strewn  it  everywhere 
plentifully  within  their  reach." 

"  But,  after  all,  it  would  be  a  mockery  on  the  old 
dame's  part,"  said  the  young  man,  somewhat  bitterly, 
"  since  she  would  thus  hold  the  desired  thing  seem 
ingly  within  our  reach  ;  but  because  she  never  tells  us 
how  to  prepare  and  obtain  its  efficacy,  we  miss  it  just 
as  much  as  if  all  the  ingredients  were  hidden  from 
sight  and  knowledge  in  the  centre  of  the  earth.  We 
are  the  playthings  and  fools  of  Nature,  which  she 
amuses  herself  with  during  our  little  lifetime,  and  then 
breaks  for  mere  sport,  and  laughs  in  our  faces  as  she 
does  so." 

"  Take  care,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
his  great  coarse  laugh.  "I  rather  suspect  that  you 
have  already  got  beyond  the  age  when  the  great  medi 
cine  could  do  you  good ;  that  speech  indicates  a  great 
toughness  and  hardness  and  bitterness  about  the  heart 
that  does  not  accumulate  in  our  tender  years." 

Septimius  took  little  or  no  notice  of  the  raillery  of 
the  grim  old  doctor,  but  employed  the  rest  of  the  time 
in  getting  as  much  information  as  he  could  out  of  his 
guest ;  and  though  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  show 
him  the  precious  and  sacred  manuscript,  yet  he  ques 
tioned  him  as  closely  as  possible  without  betraying  his 
secret,  as  to  the  modes  of  finding  out  cryptic  writings. 
The  doctor  was  not  without  the  perception  that  his 
dark -browed,  keen -eyed  acquaintance  had  some  pur 
pose  not  openly  avowed  in  all  these  pertinacious,  dis 
tinct  questions ;  he  discovered  a  central  reference  in 
them  all,  and  perhaps  knew  that  Septimius  must  have 
in  his  possession  some  writing  in  hieroglyphics,  cipher, 
or  other  secret  mode,  that  conveyed  instructions  how 
to  operate  with  the  strange  recipe  that  he  had  shown 
him. 


SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON.  313 

"  You  had  better  trust  me  fully,  my  good  sir,"  said 
he.  "  Not  but  what  I  will  give  you  all  the  aid  I  can 
without  it;  for  you  have  done  me  a  greater  benefit 
than  you  are  aware  of,  beforehand.  No  —  you  will 
not?  "Well,  if  you  can  change  your  mind,  seek  mo 
out  in  Boston,  where  I  have  seen  fit  to  settle  in  the 
practice  of  my  profession,  and  I  will  serve  you  accord 
ing  to  your  folly ;  for  folly  it  is,  I  warn  you." 

Nothing  else  worthy  of  record  is  known  to  have 
passed  during  the  doctor  s  visit ;  and  in  due  time  he 
disappeared,  as  it  were,  in  a  whiff  of  tobacco-smoke, 
leaving  an  odor  of  brandy  and  tobacco  behind  him, 
and  a  traditionary  memory  of  a  wizard  that  had  been 
there.  Septimius  went  to  work  with  what  items  of 
knowledge  he  had  gathered  from  him  ;  but  the  inter 
view  had  at  least  made  him  aware  of  one  thing,  which 
was,  that  he  must  provide  himself  with  all  possible 
quantity  of  scientific  knowledge  of  botany,  and  per- 
haps  more  extensive  knowledge,  in  order  to  be  able  to 
concoct  the  recipe.  It  was  the  fruit  of  all  the  scien 
tific  attainment  of  the  age  that  produced  it  (so  said 
the  legend,  which  seemed  reasonable  enough),  a  great 
philosopher  had  wrought  his  learning  into  it ;  and  this 
had  been  attempered,  regulated,  improved,  by  the 
quick,  bright  intellect  of  his  scholar.  Perhaps,  thought 
Septimius,  another  deep  and  earnest  intelligence  added 
to  these  two  may  bring  the  precious  recipe  to  still 
greater  perfection.  At  least  it  shall  be  tried.  So 
thinking,  he  gathered  together  all  the  books  that  he 
could  find  relating  to  such  studies ;  he  spent  one  day, 
moreover,  in  a  walk  to  Cambridge,  where  he  searched 
the  alcoves  of  the  college  library  for  such  works-  as  it 
contained;  and  borrowing  them  from  the  war -dis 
turbed  institution  of  learning,  he  betook  himself  home- 


814  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

wards,  and  applied  himself  to  the  study  with  an  ear 
nestness  of  zealous  application  that  perhaps  has  been 
seldom  equalled  in  a  study  of  so  quiet  a  character.  A 
month  or  two  of  study,  with  practice  upon  such  plants 
as  he  found  upon  his  hill-top,  and  along  the  brook 
and  in  other  neighboring  localities,  sufficed  to  do  a 
great  deal  for  him.  In  this  pursuit  he  was  assisted 
by  Sibyl,  who  proved  to  have  great  knowledge  in  some 
botanical  departments,  especially  among  flowers  ;  and 
in  her  cold  and  quiet  way,  she  met  him  on  this  subject 
and  glided  by  his  side,  as  she  had  done  so  long,  a  com 
panion,  a  daily  observer  and  observed  of  him,  mixing 
herself  up  with  his  pursuits,  as  if  she  were  an  attend 
ant  sprite  upon  him. 

But  this  pale  girl  was  not  the  only  associate  of  his 
studies,  the  only  instructress,  whom  Septimius  found. 
The  observation  which  Doctor  Portsoaken  made  about 
the  fantastic  possibility  that  Aunt  Keziah  might  have 
inherited  the  same  recipe  from  her  Indian  ancestry 
which  had  been  struck  out  by  the  science  of  Friar  Ba 
con  and  his  pupil  had  not  failed  to  impress  Septimius, 
and  to  remain  on  his  memory.  So,  not  long  after  the 
doctor's  departure,  the  young  man  took  occasion  one 
evening  to  say  to  his  aunt  that  he  thought  his  stomach 
was  a  little  out  of  order  with  too  much  application,  and 
that  perhaps  she  could  give  him  some  herb-drink  or 
other  that  would  be  good  for  him. 

"  That  I  can,  Seppy,  my  darling,"  said  the  old  wo 
man,  "  and  I  'm  glad  you  have  the  sense  to  ask  for  it 
at  last.  Here  it  is  in  this  bottle ;  and  though  that 
foolish,  blaspheming  doctor  turned  up  his  old  brandy 
nose  at  it,  I  '11  drink  with  him  any  day  and  come  off 
better  than  he."  -./*. 

So  saying,  she  took  out  of  the  closet  her  brown  jug, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  315 

stopped  with  a  cork  that  had  a  rag  twisted  round  it  to 
make  it  tighter,  filled  a  mug  half  fidl  of  the  concoc 
tion,  and  set  it  on  the  table  before  Septirnius. 

"  There,  child,  smell  of  that ;  the  smell  merely  will 
do  you  good ;  but  drink  it  down,  and  you  ?11  live  the 
longer  for  it." 

'k  Indeed,  Aunt  Keziah,  is  that  so  ?  "  asked  Septim- 
ius,  a  little  startled  by  a  recommendation  which  in 
some  measure  tallied  with  what  he  wanted  in  a  med 
icine.  "  That 's  a  good  quality." 

He  looked  into  the  mug,  and  saw  a  turbid,  yellow 
concoction,  not  at  all  attractive  to  the  eye ;  he  smelt 
of  it,  and  was  partly  of  opinion  that  Aunt  Keziah  had 
mixed  a  certain  unfragrant  vegetable,  called  skunk- 
cabbage,  with  the  other  ingredients  of  her  witch-drink. 
He  tasted  it ;  not  a  mere  sip,  but  a  good,  genuine  gulp, 
being  determined  to  have  real  proof  of  what  the  stuff 
was  in  all  respects.  The  draught  seemed  at  first  to 
burn  in  his  mouth,  unaccustomed  to  any  drink  but 
water,  and  to  go  scorching  all  the  way  down  into  his 
stomach,  making  him  sensible  of  the  depth  of  his  in- 
wards  by  a  track  of  fire,  far,  far  down  ;  and  then, 
worse  than  the  fire,  came  a  taste  of  hideous  bitterness 
and  nauseousness,  which  he  had  not  previously  con 
ceived  to  exist,  and  which  threatened  to  stir  up  his 
bowels  into  utter  revolt ;  but  knowing  Aunt  Keziah's 
touchiness  with  regard  to  this  concoction,  and  how  sa 
cred  she  held  it,  he  made  an  effort  of  real  heroism, 
squelched  down  his  agony,  and  kept  his  face  quiet, 
with  the  exception  of  one  strong  convulsion,  wrhich  he 
allowed  to  twist  across  it  for  the  sake  of  saving  his 
life. 

"  It  tastes  as  if  it  might  have  great  potency  in  it, 
Aunt  Keziah,"  said  this  unf ortunate  young  man  •  "  I 


316  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

wish  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is  made  of,  and  how 
you  brew  it ;  for  I  have  observed  you  are  very  strict 
and  secret  about  it." 

"  Aha  !  you  have  seen  that,  have  you  ?  "  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  taking  a  sip  of  her  beloved  liquid,  and  grin 
ning  at  him  with  a  face  and  eyes  as  yellow  as  that  she 
was  drinking.  In  fact  the  idea  struck  him,  that  in 
temper,  and  all  appreciable  qualities,  Aunt  Keziah  was 
a  good  deal  like  this  drink  of  hers,  having  probably 
become  saturated  by  them  while  she  drank  of  it.  And 
then,  having  drunk,  she  gloated  over  it,  and  tasted, 
and  smelt  of  the  cup  of  this  hellish  wine,  as  a  wine- 
bibber  does  of  that  which  is  most  fragrant  and  deli 
cate.  "  And  you  want  to  know  how  I  make  it  ?  Bu*- 
first,  child,  tell  me  honestly,  do  you  love  this  drink  of 
mine  ?  Otherwise,  here,  and  at  once,  we  stop  talking 
about  it." 

"  I  love  it  for  its  virtues,"  said  Septimius,  temporiz 
ing  with  his  conscience,  "  and  would  prefer  it  on  that 
account  to  the  rarest  wines." 

"  So  far  good,"  said  Aunt  Keziah,  who  could  not 
well  conceive  that  her  liquor  should  be  otherwise  than 
delicious  to  the  palate.  "It  is  the  most  virtuous  liq 
uor  that  ever  was ;  and  therefore  one  need  not  fear 
drinking  too  much  of  it.  And  you  want  to  know 
what  it  is  made  of  ?  Well ;  I  have  often  thought  of 
telling  you,  Seppy,  my  boy,  when  you  should  come  to 
be  old  enough  ;  for  I  have  no  other  inheritance  to 
leave  you,  and  you  are  all  of  my  blood,  unless  I  should 
happen  to  have  some  far-off  uncle  among  the  Cape 
Indians.  But  first,  you  must  know  how  this  good 
drink,  and  the  faculty  of  making  it,  came  down  to  me 
from  the  chiefs,  and  sachems,  and  Peow-wows,  that 
were  your  anct  stors  and  mine,  Septimius,  and  from 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  317 

the  old  wizard  who  was  my  great-grandfather  and 
yours,  and  who,  they  say,  added  the  fire-water  to  the 
other  ingredients,  and  so  gave  it  the  only  one  thing 
that  it  wanted  to  make  it  perfect." 

And  so  Aunt  Keziah,  who  had  now  put  herself  into 
a  most  comfortable  and  jolly  state  by  sipping  again, 
and  after  pressing  Septimitis  to  mind  his  draught 
(who  declined,  on  the  plea  that  one  dram  at  a  time 
was  enough  for  a  new  beginner,  its  virtues  being  so 
strong,  as  well  as  admirable),  the  old  woman  told  him 
a  legend  strangely  wild  and  uncouth,  and  mixed  up 
of  savage  and  civilized  life,  and  of  the  superstitions 
of  both,  but  which  yet  had  a  certain  analogy,  that  im 
pressed  Septimius  much,  to  the  story  that  the  doctor 
had  told  him. 

She  said  that,  many  ages  ago,  there  had  been  a  wild 
sachem  in  the  forest,  a  king  among  the  Indians,  and 
from  whom,  the  old  lady  said,  with  a  look  of  pride, 
she  and  Septimius  were  lineally  descended,  and  were 
probably  the  very  last  who  inherited  one  drop  of  that 
royal,  wise,  and  warlike  blood.  The  sachem  had  lived 
very  long,  longer  than  anybody  knew,  for  the  Indians 
kept  no  record,  and  could  only  talk  of  a  great  number 
of  moons  ;  and  they  said  he  was  as  old,  or  older,  than 
the  oldest  trees ;  as  old  as  the  hills  almost,  and  could 
remember  back  to  the  days  of  godlike  men,  who  had 
arts  then  forgotten.  He  was  a  wise  and  good  man, 
and  could  foretell  as  far  into  the  future  as  he  could 
remember  into  the  past ;  and  he  continued  to  live  on, 
till  his  people  were  afraid  that  he  would  live  forever, 
and  so  disturb  the  whole  order  of  nature  ;  and  they 
thought  it  time  that  so  good  a  man,  and  so  great 
a  warrior  and  wizard,  should  be  gone  to  the  happy 
hunting-grounds,  and  that  so  wise  a  counsellor  should 


318  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

go  and  tell  his  experience  of  life  to  the  Great  Father, 
and  give  him  an  account  of  matters  here,  and  perhaps 
lead  him  to  make  some  changes  in  the  conduct  of  the 
lower  world.  And  so,  all  these  things  duly  considered, 
they  very  reverently  assassinated  the  great,  never-dy 
ing  sachem  ;  for  though  safe  against  disease,  and  un- 
decayable  by  age,  he  was  capable  of  being  killed  by 
violence,  though  the  hardness  of  his  skull  broke  to 
fragments  the  stone  tomahawk  with  which  they  at 
first  tried  to  kill  him. 

So  a  deputation  of  the  best  and  bravest  of  the  tribe 
went  to  the  great  sachem,  and  told  him  their  thought, 
and  reverently  desired  his  consent  to  be  put  out  of  the 
world  ;  and  the  undying  one  agreed  with  them  that  it 
was  better  for  his  own  comfort  that  he  should  die,  and 
that  he  had  long  been  weary  of  the  world,  having 
learned  all  that  it  could  teach  him,  and  having,  chiefly, 
learned  to  despair  of  ever  making  the  red  race  much 
better  than  they  now  were.  So  he  cheerfully  con 
sented,  and  told  them  to  kill  him  if  they  could ;  and 
first  they  tried  the  stone  hatchet,  which  was  broken 
against  his  skull ;  and  then  they  shot  arrows  at  him, 
which  could  not  pierce  the  toughness  of  his  skin  ;  and 
finally  they  plastered  up  his  nose  and  mouth  (which 
kept  uttering  wisdom  to  the  last)  with  clay,  and  set 
him  to  bake  in  the  sun  ;  so  at  last  his  life  burnt  out 
of  his  breast,  tearing  his  body  to  pieces,  and  he  died. 

\_Mdke  this  legend  grotesque,  and  express  the 
weariness  of  the  tribe  at  the  intolerable  control  the 
undying  one  had  of  them  ;  his  always  bringing  up 
precepts  from  his  own  experience,  never  consenting  to 
anything  new,  and  so  impeding  progress  ;  his  habits 
hardening  into  him,  his  ascribing  to  himself  all'*wis' 
dom,  and  depriving  everybody  of  his  right  to  succes* 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  319 

sive  command  ;  his  endless  talk,  and  dwelling  on  the 
past,  so  that  the  world  could  ?wt  bear  him.  De 
scribe  his  ascetic  and  severe  habits,  his  rigid  calm 
ness,  etc.'] 

But  before  the  great  sagamore  died  he  imparted  to 
a  chosen  one  of  his  tribe,  the  next  wisest  to  himself, 
the  secret  of  a  potent  and  delicious  drink,  the  constant 
imbibing  of  which,  together  with  his  abstinence  from 
luxury  and  passion,  had  kept  him  alive  so  long,  and 
would  doubtless  have  compelled  him  to  live  forever. 
This  drink  was  compounded  of  many  ingredients,  all 
of  which  were  remembered  and  handed  down  in  tradi 
tion,  save  one,  which,  either  because  it  was  nowhere  to 
be  found,  or  for  some  other  reason,  was  forgotten ;  so 
that  the  drink  ceased  to  give  immortal  life  as  before. 
They  say  it  was  a  beautiful  purple  flower.  [Perhaps 
the  Devil  taught  him  the  drink,  or  else  the  Great 
Sjririt,  —  doubtful  which. ~\  But  it  still  was  a  most 
excellent  drink,  and  conducive  to  health,  and  the  cure 
of  all  diseases ;  and  the  Indians  had  it  at  the  time  of 
the  settlement  by  the  English ;  and  at  one  of  those 
wizard  meetings  in  the  forest,  where  the  Black  Man 
used  to  meet  his  red  children  and  his  white  ones,  and 
be  jolly  with  them,  a  great  Indian  wizard  taught  the 
secret  to  Septimius's  great-grandfather,  who  was  a 
wizard,  and  died  for  it ;  and  he,  in  return,  taught  the 
Indians  to  mix  it  with  rum,  thinking  that  this  might 
be  the  very  ingredient  that  was  missing,  and  that  by 
adding  it  he  might  give  endless  life  to  himself  and  all 
his  Indian  friends,  among  whom  he  had  taken  a  wife. 

"  But  your  great-grandfather,  you  know,  had  not  a 
fair  chance  to  test  its  virtues,  having  been  hanged  for 
a  wizard ;  and  as  for  the  Indians,  they  probably  mixed 
too  much  fire-water  with  their  liquid,  so  that  it  burnt 


320  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

them  up,  and  they  all  died  ;  and  my  mother,  and  her 
mother,  —  who  taught  the  drink  to  me,  —  and  her 
mother  afore  her,  thought  it  a  sin  to  try  to  live  longer 
than  the  Lord  pleased,  so  they  let  themselves  die. 
And  though  the  drink  is  good,  Septimius,  and  tooth 
some,  as  you  see,  yet  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  were  get 
ting  old,  like  other  people,  and  may  die  in  the  course 
of  the  next  half-century  ;  so  perhaps  the  rum  was  not 
just  the  thing  that  was  wanting  to  make  up  the  recipe. 
But  it  is  very  good !  Take  a  drop  more  of  it,  dear." 

"  Not  at  present,  I  thank  you,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said 
Septimius,  gravely ;  "  but  will  you  tell  me  what  the 
ingredients  are,  and  how  you  make  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will,  my  boy,  and  you  shall  write  them 
down,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  for  it 's  a  good  drink, 
and  none  the  worse,  it  may  be,  for  not  making  you  live 
forever.  I  sometimes  think  I  had  as  lief  go  to  heaven 
as  keep  on  living  here." 

Accordingly,  making  Septimius  take  pen  and  ink, 
she  proceeded  to  tell  him  a  list  of  plants  and  herbs, 
and  forest  productions,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find 
that  it  agreed  most  wonderfully  with  the  recipe  con 
tained  in  the  old  manuscript,  as  he  had  puzzled  it  out, 
and  as  it  had  been  explained  by  the  doctor.  There 
were  a  few  variations,  it  is  true  ;  but  even  here  there 
was  a  close  analogy,  plants  indigenous  to  America 
being  substituted  for  cognate  productions,  the  growth 
of  Europe.  Then  there  was  another  difference  in  the 
mode  of  preparation,  Aunt  Keziah's  nostrum  being  a 
concoction,  whereas  the  old  manuscript  gave  a  process 
of  distillation.  This  similarity  had  a  strong  effect  on 
Septimius's  imagination.  Here  was,  in  one  case,  a 
drink  suggested,  as  might  be  supposed,  to  a  primitive 
people  by  something  similar  to  that  instinct  by  which 


SEP  TIM  I  US  FELT  ON.  821 

the  brute  creation  recognizes  the  medicaments  suited 
to  its  needs,  so  that  they  mixed  up  fragrant  herbs  for 
reasons  wiser  than  they  knew,  and  made  them  into  a 
salutary  potion  ;  and  h^re,  again,  was  a  drink  con 
trived  by  the  utmost  skill  of  a  great  civilized  philoso 
pher,  searching  the  whole  field  of  science  for  his  pur 
pose  ;  and  these  two  drinks  proved,  in  all  essential 
particulars,  to  be  identically  the  same. 

"  O  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  he,  with  a  longing  earnest 
ness,  "  are  you  sure  that  you  cannot  remember  that 
one  ingredient  ?  " 

"  No,  Septimius,  I  cannot  possibly  do  it,"  said  she. 
"  I  have  tried  many  things,  skunk-cabbage,  wormwood, 
and  a  thousand  things  ;  for  it  is  truly  a  pity  that  the 
chief  benefit  of  the  thing  should  be  lost  for  so  little. 
But  the  only  effect  was,  to  spoil  the  good  taste  of  the 
stuff,  and,  two  or  three  times,  to  poison  myself,  so  that 
I  broke  out  all  over  blotches,  and  once  lost  the  use  of 
my  left  arm,  and  got  a  dizziness  in  the  head,  and  a 
rheumatic  twist  in  my  knee,  a  hardness  of  hearing, 
and  a  dimness  of  sight,  and  the  trembles  ;  all  of  which 
I  certainly  believe  to  have  been  caused  by  my  putting 
something  else  into  this  blessed  drink  besides  the  good 
New  England  rum.  Stick  to  that,  Seppy,  my  dear." 

So  saying,  Aunt  Keziah  took  yet  another  sip  of  the 
beloved  liquid,  after  vainly  pressing  Septimius  to  do 
the  like ;  and  then  lighting  her  old  clay  pipe,  she  sat 
down  in  the  chimney-corner,  meditating,  dreaming, 
muttering  pious  prayers  and  ejaculations,  and  some 
times  looking  up  the  wide  flue  of  the  chimney,  with 
thoughts,  perhaps,  how  delightful  it  must  have  been  to 
fly  up  there,  in  old  times,  on  excursions  by  midnight 
into  the  forest,  where  was  the  Black  Man,  and  the 
Puritan  deacons  and  ladies,  and  those  wild  Indian  an- 

VOL.   XI.  21 


322  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

cestors  of  hers  ;  and  where  the  wildness  of  the  forest 
was  so  grim  and  delightful,  and  so  unlike  the  common- 
placeness  in  which  she  spent  her  life.  For  thus  did 
the  savage  strain  of  the  woman,  mixed  up  as  it  was 
with  the  other  weird  and  religious  parts  of  her  compo 
sition,  sometimes  snatch  her  back  into  barbarian  life 
and  its  instincts  ;  and  in  Septimius,  though  further 
diluted,  and  modified  likewise  by  higher  cultivation, 
there  was  the  same  tendency. 

Septimius  escaped  from  the  old  woman,  and  was 
glad  to  breathe  the  free  air  again ;  so  much  had  he 
been  wrought  upon  by  her  wild  legends  and  wild  char 
acter,  the  more  powerful  by  its  analogy  with  his  own  ; 
and  perhaps,  too,  his  brain  had  been  a  little  bewil 
dered  by  the  draught  of  her  diabolical  concoction 
which  she  had  compelled  him  to  take.  At  any  rate, 
he  was  glad  to  escape  to  his  hill-top,  the  free  air  of 
which  had  doubtless  contributed  to  keep  him  in  health 
through  so  long  a  course  of  morbid  thought  and  es 
tranged  study  as  he  had  addicted  himself  to. 

Here,  as  it  happened,  he  found  both  Rose  Garfield 
and  Sibyl  Dacy,  whom  the  pleasant  summer  evening 
had  brought  out.  They  had  formed  a  friendship,  or 
at  least  society ;  and  there  could  not  well  be  a  pair 
more  unlike,  —  the  one  so  natural,  so  healthy,  so  fit  to 
live  in  the  world ;  the  other  such  a  morbid,  pale  thing. 
So  there  they  were,  walking  arm  in  arm,  with  one  arm 
round  each  other's  waist,  as  girls  love  to  do.  They 
greeted  the  young  man  in  their  several  ways,  and  be 
gan  to  walk  to  and  fro  together,  looking  at  the  sunset 
as  it  came  on,  and  talking  of  things  on  earth  and  in 
the  clouds. 

"  When  has  Robert  Hagburn  been  heard  from  ?  " 
asked  Septimius,  who,  involved  in  his  own  pursuits, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  323 

was  altogether  behindhand  in  the  matters  of  the  war, 
—  shame  to  him  for  it ! 

44  There  came  news,  two  days  past; '  said  Rose^ 
blushing.  4i  He  is  on  his  way  home  with  the  remnant 
of  General  Arnold's  command,  and  will  be  here  soon. ' 

44  He  is  a  brave  fellow,  Robert,"  said  Septimius, 
carelessly.  44  And  I  know  not,  since  life  is  so  short, 
that  anything  better  can  be  done  with  it  than  to  risk 
it  as  he  does." 

44 1  truly  think  not,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  composedly. 

44  What  a  blessing  it  is  to  mortals,"  said  Sibyl 
Dacy,  44  what  a  kindness  of  Providence,  that  life  is 
made  so  uncertain  ;  that  death  is  thrown  in  among 
the  possibilities  of  our  being ;  that  these  awf ul  myste 
ries  are  thrown  around  us,  into  which  we  may  vanish  ! 
For,  without  it,  how  would  it  be  possible  to  be  heroic, 
how  should  we  plod  along  in  commonplaces  forever, 
never  dreaming  high  things,  never  risking  anything  ? 
For  my  part,  I  think  man  is  more  favored  than  the 
angels,  and  made  capable  of  higher  heroism,  greater 
virtue,  and  of  a  more  excellent  spirit  than  they,  be 
cause  we  have  such  a  mystery  of  grief  and  terror 
around  us  ;  whereas  they,  being  in  a  certainty  of  God's 
light,  seeing  his  goodness  and  his  purposes  more  per 
fectly  than  we,  cannot  be  so  brave  as  often  poor  weak 
man,  and  weaker  woman,  has  the  opportunity  to  be, 
and  sometimes  makes  use  of  it.  God  gave  the  whole 
world  to  man,  and  if  he  is  left  alone  with  it,  it  will 
make  a  clod  of  him  at  last ;  but,  to  remedy  that,  God 
gave  man  a  grave,  and  it  redeems  all,  while  it  seems 
to  destroy  all,  and  makes  an  immortal  spirit  of  him  in 
the  end." 

44  Dear  Sibyl,  you  are  inspired,"  said  Rose,  gazing 
in  her  face. 


324  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

"  I  think  you  ascribe  a  great  deal  too  much  potency 
to  the  grave,"  said  Septimius,  pausing  in  voluntarily 
alone  by  the  little  hillock,  whose  contents  he  knew  so 
well.  "  The  grave  seems  to  me  a  vile  pitfall,  put  right 
in  our  pathway,  and  catching  most  of  us,  —  all  of  us, 
— -causing  us  to  tumble  in  at  the  most  inconvenient 
opportunities,  so  that  all  human  life  is  a  jest  and  a 
farce,  just  for  the  sake  of  this  inopportune  death ;  for 
I  observe  it  never  waits  for  us  to  accomplish  anything : 
we  may  have  the  salvation  of  a  country  in  hand,  but 
we  are  none  the  less  likely  to  die  for  that.  So  that, 
being  a  believer,  on  the  whole,  in  the  wisdom  and  gra- 
ciousness  of  Providence,  I  am  convinced  that  dying  is 
a  mistake,  and  that  by  and  by  we  shall  overcome  it. 
I  say  there  is  no  use  in  the  grave." 

"  I  still  adhere  to  what  I  said,"  answered  Sibyl 
Dacy ;  "  and  besides,  there  is  another  use  of  a  grave 
which  I  have  often  observed  in  old  English  graveyards, 
where  the  moss  grows  green,  and  embosses  the  letters 
of  the  gravestones ;  and  also  graves  are  very  good  for 
flower-beds." 

Nobody  ever  could  tell  when  the  strange  girl  was 
going  to  say  what  was  laughable,  —  when  what  was 
melancholy ;  and  neither  of  Sibyl's  auditors  knew  quite 
what  to  make  of  this  speech.  Neither  could  Septim 
ius  fail  to  be  a  little  startled  by  seeing  her,  as  she 
spoke  of  the  grave  as  a  flower-bed,  stoop  down  to  the 
little  hillock  to  examine  the  flowers,  which,  indeed, 
seemed  to  prove  her  words  by  growing  there  in  strange 
abundance,  and  of  many  sorts ;  so  that,  if  they  could 
all  have  bloomed  at  once,  the  spot  would  have  looked 
like  a  bouquet  by  itself,  or  as  if  the  earth  were  richest 
in  beauty  there,  or  as  if  seeds  had  been  lavish^  by 
some  florist.  Septimius  could  not  account  for  it,  foi 


SEPTIMUS  PEL  TON.  325 

though  the  hill-side  did  produce  certain  flowers,  —  the 
aster,  the  golden-rod,  the  violet,  and  other  such  simple 
and  common  things,  —  yet  this  seemed  as  if  a  carpet 
of  bright  colors  had  been  thrown  down  there  and  cov 
ered  the  spot. 

"  This  is  very  strange,"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  Sibyl  Dacy,  "there  is  some  strange 
richness  in  this  little  spot  of  soil." 

"  Where  could  the  seeds  have  come  from  ?  —  that  is 
the  greatest  wonder,"  said  Rose.  "You  might  almost 
teach  me  botany,  methinks,  on  this  one  spot." 

"  Do  you  know  this  plant  ?  "  asked  Sibyl  of  Septim- 
ius,  pointing  to  one  not  yet  in  flower,  but  of  singu 
lar  leaf,  that  was  thrusting  itself  up  out  of  the  ground, 
on  the  very  centre  of  the  grave,  over  where  the  breast 
of  the  sleeper  below  might  seem  to  be.  "  I  think  there 
is  no  other  here  like  it." 

Septimius  stooped  down  to  examine  it,  and  was  con 
vinced  that  it  was  unlike  anything  he  had  seen  of  the 
flower  kind ;  a  leaf  of  a  dark  green,  with  purple  veins 
traversing  it,  it  had  a  sort  of  questionable  aspect,  as 
some  plants  have,  so  that  you  would  think  it  very 
likely  to  be  poison,  and  would  not  like  to  touch  or 
smell  very  intimately,  without  first  inquiring  who  would 
be  its  guarantee  that  it  should  do  no  mischief.  That 
it  had  some  richness  or  other,  either  baneful  or  bene 
ficial,  you  could  not  doubt. 

"  I  think  it  poisonous,"  said  Rose  Garfield,  shudder 
ing,  for  she  was  a  person  so  natural  she  hated  poison 
ous  things,  or  anything  speckled  especially,  and  did 
not,  indeed,  love  strangeness.  "  Yet  I  should  not  won 
der  if  it  bore  a  beautiful  flower  by  and  by.  Never 
theless,  if  I  were  to  do  just  as  I  feel  inclined,  I  should 
root  it  up  and  fling  it  away." 


326  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  Shall  she  do  so  ?  "  said  Sibyl  to  Septimius. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  said  he,  hastily.  "  Above  all 
things,  I  desire  to  see  what  will  come  of  this  plant." 

"  Be  it  as  you  please,"  said  Sibyl.  "  Meanwhile,  if 
you  like  to  sit  down  here  and  listen  to  me,  I  will  tell 
you  a  story  that  happens  to  come  into  my  mind  just 
now,  —  I  cannot  tell  why.  It  is  a  legend  of  an  old  hall 
that  I  know  well,  and  have  known  from  my  childhood, 
in  one  of  the  northern  counties  of  England,  where  I 
was  born.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it,  Rose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  all  things,"  said  she.  "  I  like  all  stories 
of  hall  and  cottage  in  the  old  country,  though  now  we 
must  not  call  it  our  country  any  more." 

Sibyl  looked  at  Septimius,  as  if  to  inquire  whether 
he,  too,  chose  to  listen  to  her  story,  and  he  made 
answer :  — 

"  Yes,  I  shall  like  to  hear  the  legend,  if  it  is  a  gen 
uine  one  that  has  been  adopted  into  the  popular  belief, 
and  came  down  in  chimney-corners  with  the  smoke 
and  soot  that  gathers  there ;  and  incrusted  over  with 
humanity,  by  passing  from  one  homely  mind  to  another. 
Then,  such  stories  get  to  be  true,  in  a  certain  sense, 
and  indeed  in  that  sense  may  be  called  true  through 
out,  for  the  very  nucleus,  the  fiction  in  them,  seems  to 
have  come  out  of  the  heart  of  man  in  a  way  that  can 
not  be  imitated  of  malice  aforethought.  Nobody  can 
make  a  tradition ;  it  takes  a  century  to  make  it." 

"  I  know  not  whether  this  legend  has  the  character 
you  mean,"  said  Sibyl,  "  but  it  has  lived  much  more 
than  a  century  :  and  here  it  is. 

"  On  the  threshold  of  one  of  the  doors  of Hall 

there  is  a  bloody  footstep  impressed  into  the  doorstep, 
and  ruddy  as  if  the  bloody  foot  had  just  trodden  tlierej 


SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON.  327 

and  it  is  averred  that,  on  a  certain  night  of  the  year, 
and  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night,  if  you  a'o  and  look 

O  «/  O 

at  that  doorstep  you  will  see  the  mark  wet  with  fresh 
blood.  Some  have  pretended  to  say  that  this  appear 
ance  of  blood  was  but  dew ;  but  can  dew  redden  a 
cambric  handkerchief?  Will  it  crimson  the  finger 
tips  when  you  touch  it  ?  And  that  is  what  the  bloody 
footstep  will  surely  do  when  the  appointed  night  and 
hour  come  round,  tin's  very  year,  just  as  it  would  three 
hundred  years  ago. 

"  Well ;  but  how  did  it  come  there  ?  I  know  not 
precisely  in  what  age  it  was,  but  long  ago,  when  light 
was  beginning  to  shine  into  what  were  called  the  dark 
ages,  there  was  a  lord  of  Hall  who  applied  him 
self  deeply  to  knowledge  and  science,  under  the  guid 
ance  of  the  wisest  man  of  that  age,  —  a  man  so  wise 
that  he  was  thought  to  be  a  wizard ;  and,  indeed,  he 
may  have  been  one,  if  to  be  a  wizard  consists  in  hav 
ing  command  over  secret  powers  of  nature,  that  other 
men  do  not  even  suspect  the  existence  of,  and  the  con 
trol  of  which  enables  one  to  do  feats  that  seem  as  won 
derful  as  raising  the  dead.  It  is  needless  to  tell  you 
all  the  strange  stories  that  have  survived  to  this  day 
about  the  old  Hall ;  and  how  it  is  believed  that  the 
master  of  it,  owing  to  his  ancient  science,  has  still  a 
sort  of  residence  there,  and  control  of  the  place ;  and 
how,  in  one  of  the  chambers,  there  is  still  his  antique 
table,  and  his  chair,  and  some  rude  old  instruments 
and  machinery,  and  a  book,  and  everything  in  readi 
ness,  just  as  if  lie  might  still  come  back  to  finish  some 
experiment.  What  it  is  important  to  say  is,  that  one 
of  the  chief  things  to  which  the  old  lord  applied  him 
self  was  to  discover  the  means  of  prolonging  his  own 
life,  so  that  its  duration  should  be  indefinite,  if  not 


328  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

infinite  ;  and  such  was  his  science,  that  he  was  believed 
to  have  attained  this  magnificent  and  awful  purpose. 

"  So,  as  you  may  suppose,  the  man  of  science  had 
great  joy  in  having  done  this  thing,  both  for  the 
pride  of  it,  and  because  it  was  so  delightful  a  thing  to 
have  before  him  the  prospect  of  endless  time,  which 
he  might  spend  in  adding  more  and  more  to  his  sci 
ence,  and  so  doing  good  to  the  world ;  for  the  chief 
obstruction  to  the  improvement  of  the  world  and  the 
growth  of  knowledge  is,  that  mankind  cannot  go 
straightforward  in  it,  but  continually  there  have  to  be 
new  beginnings,  and  it  takes  every  new  man  half  his 
life,  if  not  the  whole  of  it,  to  come  up  to  the  point 
where  his  predecessor  left  off.  And  so  this  noble  man 
—  this  man  of  a  noble  purpose  —  spent  many  years 
in  finding  out  this  mighty  secret ;  and  at  last,  it  is 
said,  he  succeeded.  But  on  what  terms  ? 

"  Well,  it  is  said  that  the  terms  were  dreadful  and 
horrible ;  insomuch  that  the  wise  man  hesitated  whether 
it  were  lawful  and  desirable  to  take  advantage  of 
them,  great  as  was  the  object  in  view. 

"  You  see,  the  object  of  the  lord  of Hall  was 

to  take  a  life  from  the  course  of  Nature,  and  Nature 
did  not  choose  to  be  defrauded ;  so  that,  great  as  was 
the  power  of  this  scientific  man  over  her,  she  would 
not  consent  that  he  should  escape  the  necessity  of  dy 
ing  at  his  proper  time,  except  upon  condition  of  sac 
rificing  some  other  life  for  his ;  and  this  was  to  be 
done  once  for  every  thirty  years  that  he  chose  to  live, 
thirty  years  being  the  account  of  a  generation  of  man ; 
and  if  in  any  way,  in  that  time,  this  lord  could  be  the 
death  of  a  human  being,  that  satisfied  the  requisition, 
and  he  might  live  on.  There  is  a  form  of  the  legend 
which  says,  that  one  of  the  ingredients  of  the  drink 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  329 

which  the  nobleman  brewed  by  his  science  was  the 
heart's  blood  of  a  pure  young  boy  or  girl.  But  this 
I  reject,  as  too  coarse  an  idea  :  and,  indeed,  1  think  it 
may  be  taken  to  mean  symbolically,  that  the  person 
who  desires  to  engross  to  himself  more  than  his  share 
of  human  life  must  do  it  by  sacrificing  to  his  selfish 
ness  some  dearest  interest  of  another  person,  who  has 
a  good  right  to  life,  and  may  be  as  useful  in  it  as  he. 

"  Now,  this  lord  was  a  just  man  by  nature,  and  if 
he  had  gone  astray,  it  was  greatly  by  reason  of  his 
earnest  wish  to  do  something  for  the  poor,  wicked, 
struggling,  bloody,  uncomfortable  race  of  man,  to 
which  he  belonged.  He  bethought  himself  whether 
he  would  have  a  right  to  take  the  life  of  one  of  those 
creatures,  without  their  own  consent,  in  order  to  pro 
long  his  own  ;  and  after  much  arguing  to  and  fro,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  should  not  have  the 
right,  unless  it  were  a  life  over  which  he  had  control, 
and  which  was  the  next  to  his  own.  He  looked  round 
him;  he  was  a  lonely  and  abstracted  man,  secluded 
by  his  studies  from  human  affections,  and  there  was 
but  one  human  being  whom  he  cared  for ;  —  that  was 
a  beautiful  kinswoman,  an  orphan,  whom  his  father 
had  brought  up,  and,  dying,  left  her  to  his  care. 
There  was  great  kindness  and  affection  —  as  great  as 
the  abstracted  nature  of  his  pursuits  would  allow  — 
on  the  part  of  this  lord  towards  the  beautiful  young 
girl ;  but  not  what  is  called  love,  —  at  least,  he  never 
acknowledged  it  to  himself.  But,  looking  into  his 
heart,  he  saw  that  she,  if  any  one,  was  to  be  the  per 
son  whom,  the  sacrifice  demanded,  and  that  he  might 
kill  twenty  others  without  effect,  but  if  he  took  the 
life  of  this  one,  it  would  make  the  charm  strong  and 
good. 


330  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  My  friends,  I  have  meditated  many  a  time  on  this 
ugly  feature  of  my  legend,  and  am  unwilling  to  take 
it  in  the  literal  sense  ;  so  I  conceive  its  spiritual  mean 
ing  (for  everything,  you  know,  has  its  spiritual  mean 
ing,  which  to  the  literal  meaning  is  what  the  soul  is 
to  the  body),  —  its  spiritual  meaning  was,  that  to  the 
deep  pursuit  of  science  we  must  sacrifice  great  part 
of  the  joy  of  life  ;  that  nobody  can  be  great,  and  do 
great  things,  without  giving  up  to  death,  so  far  as 
he  regards  his  enjoyment  of  it,  much  that  he  would 
gladly  enjoy  ;  and  in  that  sense  I  choose  to  take  it. 
But  the  earthly  old  legend  will  have  it  that  this  mad, 
high-minded,  heroic,  murderous  lord  did  insist  upon 
it  with  himself  that  he  must  murder  this  poor,  loving, 
and  beloved  child. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  delay  upon  this  horrible  matter, 
and  to  tell  you  how  he  argued  it  with  himself ;  and 
how,  the  more  and  more  he  argued  it,  the  more  rea 
sonable  it  seemed,  the  more  absolutely  necessary,  tho 
more  a  duty  that  the  terrible  sacrifice  should  be  made. 
Here  was  this  great  good  to  be  done  to  mankind,  and 
all  that  stood  in  the  way  of  it  was  one  little  delicate 
life,  so  frail  that  it  was  likely  enough  to  be  blown  out, 
any  day,  by  the  mere  rude  blast  that  the  rush  of  life 
creates,  as  it  streams  along,  or  by  any  slightest  ac 
cident  ;  so  good  and  pure,  too,  that  she  was  quite 
unfit  for  this  world,  and  not  capable  of  any  happiness 
in  it ;  and  all  that  was  asked  of  her  was  to  allow  her 
self  to  be  transported  to  a  place  where  she  would  be 
happy,  and  would  find  companions  fit  for  her,  —  which 
he,  her  only  present  companion,  certainly  was  not.  In 
fine,  he  resolved  to  shed  the  sweet,  fragrant  blood  of 
this  little  violet  that  loved  him  so.  .  ,4 

"  Well ;  let  us  hurry  over  this  part  of  the  story  aa 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  331 

fast  as  we  can.  He  did  slay  this  pure  young  girl ;  he 
took  her  into  the  wood  near  the  house,  an  old  wood 
that  is  standing  yet,  with  some  of  its  magnificent 
oaks  ;  and  then  he  plunged  a  dagger  into  her  heart, 
after  they  had  had  a  very  tender  and  loving  talk  to 
gether,  in  which  he  had  tried  to  open  the  matter  ten 
derly  to  her,  and  make  her  understand  that,  though 
he  was  to  slay  her,  it  was  really  for  the  very  reason 
that  he  loved  her  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  and  that  he  would  far  rather  die  himself,  if 
that  would  answer  the  purpose  at  all.  Indeed,  he  is 
said  to  have  offered  her  the  alternative  of  slaying  him, 
and  taking  upon  herself  the  burden  of  indefinite  life, 
and  the  studies  and  pursuits  by  which  he  meant  to 
benefit  mankind.  But  she,  it  is  said,  —  this  noble, 
pure,  loving  child,  —  she  looked  up  into  his  face  and 
smiled  sadly,  and  then  snatching  the  dagger  from  him, 
she  plunged  it  into  her  own  heart.  I  cannot  tell 
whether  this  be  true,  or  whether  she  waited  to  be 
killed  by  him ;  but  this  I  know,  that  in  the  same  cir 
cumstances  I  think  I  should  have  saved  my  lover  or 
my  friend  the  pain  of  killing  me.  There  she  lay  dead, 
at  any  rate,  and  he  buried  her  in  the  wood,  and  re 
turned  to  the  house  ;  and,  as  it  happened,  he  had  set 
his  right  foot  in  her  blood,  and  his  shoe  was  wet  in  it, 
and  by  some  miraculous  fate  it  left  a  track  all  along 
the  wood-path,  and  into  the  house,  and  on  the  stone 
steps  of  the  threshold,  and  up  into  his  chamber,  all 
along;  and  the  servants  saw  it  the  next  day,  and 
wondered,  and  whispered,  and  missed  the  fair  young 
girl,  and  looked  askance  at  their  lord's  right  foot,  and 
turned  pale,  all  of  them,  as  death. 

"  And  next,  the  legend  says,  that  Sir  Forrester  was 
struck  with  horror  at  what  he  had  done,  and  could  not 


332  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

bear  the  laboratory  where  he  had  toiled  so  long,  and 
was  sick  to  death  of  the  object  that  he  had  pursued, 
and  was  most  miserable,  and  fled  from  his  old  Hall, 
and  was  gone  full  many  a  day.  But  all  the  while  he 
was  gone  there  was  the  mark  of  a  bloody  footstep  im 
pressed  upon  the  stone  doorstep  of  the  Hall.  The 
track  had  lain  all  along  through  the  wood-path,  and 
across  the  lawn,  to  the  old  Gothic  door  of  the  Hall ; 
but  the  rain,  the  English  rain,  that  is  always  falling, 
had  come  the  next  day,  and  washed  it  all  away.  The 
track  had  lain,  too,  across  the  broad  hall,  and  up  the 
stairs,  and  into  the  lord's  study  ;  but  there  it  had  lair 
on  the  rushes  that  were  strewn  there,  and  these  the 
servants  had  gathered  carefully  up,  and  thrown  them 
away,  and  spread  fresh  ones.  So  that  it  was  only  on 
the  threshold  that  the  mark  remained. 

"  But  the  legend  says,  that  wherever  Sir  Forrester 
went,  in  his  wanderings  about  the  world,  he  left  a 
bloody  track  behind  him.  It  was  wonderful,  and  very 
inconvenient,  this  phenomenon.  When  he  went  into 
a  church,  you  would  see  the  track  up  the  broad  aisle, 
and  a  little  red  puddle  in  the  place  where  he  sat  or 
knelt.  Once  he  went  to  the  king's  court,  and  there 
being  a  track  up  to  the  very  throne,  the  king  frowned 
upon  him,  so  that  he  never  came  there  any  more. 
Nobody  could  tell  how  it  happened  ;  his  foot  was  not 
seen  to  bleed,  only  there  was  the  bloody  track  behind 
him,  wherever  he  went ;  and  he  was  a  horror-stricken 
man,  always  looking  behind  him  to  see  the  track,  and 
then  hurrying  onward,  as  if  to  escape  his  own  tracks ; 
but  always  they  followed  him  as  fast. 

"  In  the  hall  of  feasting,  there  was  the  bloody  track 
to  his  chair.  The  learned  men  whom  he  consulted 
about  this  strange  difficulty  conferred  with  one  an- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  333 

other,  and  with  him,  who  was  equal  to  any  of  them, 
and  pished  and  pshawed,  and  said,  '  Oh,  there  is  noth 
ing  miraculous  in  this ;  it  is  only  a  natural  infirmity, 
which  can  easily  be  put  an  end  to,  though,  perhaps, 
the  stoppage  of  such  an  evacuation  will  cause  damage 
to  other  parts  of  the  frame.'  Sir  Forrester  always  said, 
4  Stop  it,  my  learned  brethren,  if  you  can ;  no  matter 
what  the  consequences.'  And  they  did  their  best,  but 
without  result ;  so  that  he  was  still  compelled  to  leave 
his  bloody  track  on  their  college-rooms  and  combina 
tion-rooms,  the  same  as  elsewhere  ;  and  in  street  and 
in  wilderness ;  yes,  and  in  the  battle-field,  they  said, 
his  track  looked  freshest  and  reddest  of  all.  So,  at 
last,  finding  the  notice  he  attracted  inconvenient,  this 
unfortunate  lord  deemed  it  best  to  go  back  to  his  own 
Hall,  where,  living  among  faithful  old  servants  born 
in  the  family,  he  coidd  hush  the  matter  up  better  than 
elsewhere,  and  not  be  stared  at  continually,  or,  glanc 
ing  round,  see  people  holding  up  their  hands  in  terror 
at  seeing  a  bloody  track  behind  him.  And  so  home  he 
came,  and  there  he  saw  the  bloody  track  on  the  door 
step,  and  dolefully  went  into  the  hall,  and  up  the 
stairs,  an  old  servant  ushering  him  into  his  chamber, 
and  half  a  dozen  others  following  behind,  gazing, 
shuddering,  pointing  with  quivering  fingers,  looking 
horror-stricken  in  one  another's  pale  faces,  and  the 
moment  he  had  passed,  running  to  get  fresh  rushes, 
and  to  scour  the  stairs.  The  next  day,  Sir  Forrester 
went  into  the  wood,  and  by  the  aged  oak  he  found  a 
grave,  and  on  the  grave  he  beheld  a  beautiful  crimson 
flower ;  the  most  gorgeous  and  beautiful,  surely,  that 
ever  grew ;  so  rich  it  looked,  so  full  of  potent  juice. 
That  flower  he  gathered ;  and  the  spirit  of  his  scientific 
pursuits  coming  upon  him,  he  knew  that  this  was  the 


334  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

flower,  produced  out  of  a  human  life,  that  was  essential 
to  the  perfection  of  his  recipe  for  immortality ;  and 
he  made  the  drink,  and  drank  it,  and  became  im 
mortal  in  woe  and  agony,  still  studying,  still  growing 
wiser  and  more  wretched  in  every  age.  By  and  by  he 
vanished  from  the  old  Hall,  but  not  by  death ;  for, 
from  generation  to  generation,  they  say  that  a  bloody 
track  is  seen  around  that  house,  and  sometimes  it  is 
tracked  up  into  the  chambers,  so  freshly  that  you  see 
he  must  have  passed  a  short  time  before  ;  and  he 
grows  wiser  and  wiser,  and  lonelier  and  lonelier,  from 
age  to  age.  And  this  is  the  legend  of  the  bloody  foot 
step,  which  I  myself  have  seen  at  the  Hall  door.  As 
to  the  flower,  the  plant  of  it  continued  for  several 
years  to  grow  out  of  the  grave;  and  after  a  while, 
perhaps  a  century  ago,  it  wras  transplanted  into  the 

garden  of Hall,  and  preserved  with  great  care, 

and  is  so  still.  And  as  the  family  attribute  a  kind 
of  sacredness,  or  cursedness,  to  the  flower,  they  can 
hardly  be  prevailed  upon  to  give  any  of  the  seeds,  or 
allow  it  to  be  propagated  elsewhere,  though  the  king 
should  send  to  ask  it.  It  is  said,  too,  that  there  is 
still  in  the  family  the  old  lord's  recipe  for  immor 
tality,  and  that  several  of  his  collateral  descendants 
have  tried  to  concoct  it,  and  instil  the  flower  into  it, 
and  so  give  indefinite  life ;  but  unsuccessfully,  because 
the  seeds  of  the  flower  must  be  planted  in  a  fresh 
grave  of  bloody  death,  in  order  to  make  it  effectual." 

So  ended  Sibyl's  legend  ;  in  which  Septimius  was 
struck  by  a  certain  analogy  to  Aunt  Keziah's  Indian 
legend,  —  both  referring  to  a  flower  growing  out  of  a 
grave  ;  and  also  he  did  not  fail  to  be  impressed  with 
the  wild  coincidence  of  this  disappearance  of  an  an- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON,  335 

cestor  of  the  family  long  ago,  and  the  appearance,  at 
about  the  same  epoch,  of  the  first  known  ancestor  of 
his  own  family,  the  man  with  wizard's  attributes,  with 
the  bloody  footstep,  and  whose  sudden  disappearance 
became  a  myth,  under  the  idea  that  the  Devil  carried 
him  away.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  this  wild  tradition, 
doubtless  becoming  wilder  in  Sibyl's  wayward  and  mor 
bid  fancy,  had  the  effect  to  give  him  a  sense  of  the  f  an- 
tasticalness  of  his  present  pursuit,  and  that  in  adopt 
ing  it,  he  had  strayed  into  a  region  long  abandoned 
to  superstition,  and  where  the  shadows  of  forgotten 
dreams  go  when  men  are  done  with  them  ;  where  past 
worships  are  ;  where  great  Pan  went  wrheii  he  died  to 
the  outer  world  ;  a  limbo  into  which  living  men  some 
times  stray  when  they  think  themselves  sensiblest  and 
wisest,  and  whence  they  do  not  often  find  their  way 
back  into  the  real  world.  Visions  of  wealth,  visions 
of  fame,  visions  of  philanthropy,  —  all  visions  find 
room  here,  and  glide  about  without  jostling.  When 
Septimius  came  to  look  at  the  matter  in  his  present 
mood,  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  per 
haps  got  into  such  a  limbo,  and  that  Sibyl's  legend, 
which  looked  so  wild,  might  be  all  of  a  piece  with  his 
own  present  life  ;  for  Sibyl  herself  seemed  an  illusion, 
and  so,  most  strangely,  did  Aunt  Keziah,  whom  he 
had  known  all  his  life,  with  her  homely  and  quaint 
characteristics  ;  the  grim  doctor,  with  his  brandy  and 
his  German  pipe,  impressed  him  in  the  same  way  ; 
and  these,  altogether,  made  his  homely  cottage  by  the 
wayside  seem  an  unsubstantial  edifice,  such  as  castles 
in  the  air  are  built  of,  and  the  ground  he  trod  on  un 
real  ;  and  that  grave,  which  he  knew  to  contain  the 
decay  of  a  beautiful  young  man,  but  a  fictitious  swell 
formed  by  the  fantasy  of  his  eyes.  All  unreal ;  all 


836  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

illusion !  Was  Rose  Garfield  a  deception  too,  with 
her  daily  beauty,  and  daily  cheerfulness,  and  daily 
worth  ?  In  short,  it  was  such  a  moment  as  I  suppose 
all  men  feel  (at  least,  I  can  answer  for  one),  when 
the  real  scene  and  picture  of  life  swims,  jars,  shakes, 
seems  about  to  be  broken  up  and  dispersed,  like  the 
picture  in  a  smooth  pond,  when  we  disturb  its  tranquil 
mirror  by  throwing  in  a  stone  ;  and  though  the  scene 
soon  settles  itself,  and  looks  as  real  as  before,  a  haunt 
ing  doubt  keeps  close  at  hand,  as  long  as  we  live,  ask 
ing,  "Is  it  stable ?  Am  I  sure  of  it ?  Am  I  certainly 
not  dreaming  ?  See  ;  it  trembles  again,  ready  to  dis 
solve." 

Applying  himself  with  earnest  diligence  to  his  at 
tempt  to  decipher  and  interpret  the  mysterious  manu 
script,  working  with  his  whole  mind,  and  strength, 
Septimius  did  not  fail  of  some  flattering  degree  of 
success. 

A  good  deal  of  the  manuscript,  as  has  been  said, 
was  in  an  ancient  English  script,  although  so  uncouth 
and  shapeless  were  the  characters,  that  it  was  not  easy 
to  resolve  them  into  letters,  or  to  believe  that  they 
were  anything  but  arbitrary  and  dismal  blots  and 
scrawls  upon  the  yellow  paper  ;  without  meaning, 
vague,  like  the  misty  and  undefined  germs  of  thought 
as  they  exist  in  our  minds  before  clothing  themselves 
in  words.  These,  however,  as  he  concentrated  his 
mind  upon  them,  took  distincter  shape,  like  cloudy 
stars  at  the  power  of  the  telescope,  and  became  some 
times  English,  sometimes  Latin,  strangely  patched  to 
gether,  as  if,  so  accustomed  was  the  writer  to  use  that 
language  in  which  all  the  science  of  that  age  was  usu 
ally  embodied,  that  he  really  mixed  it  unconsciously 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  337 

with  the  vernacular,  or  used  both  indiscriminately. 
There  was  some  Greek,  too,  but  not  much.  Then  fre 
quently  came  in  the  cipher,  to  the  study  of  which  Sep- 
tiniius  had  applied  himself  for  some  time  back,  with 
the  aid  of  the  books  borrowed  from  the  college  library, 
and  not  without  success.  Indeed,  it  appeared  to  him, 
on  close  observation,  that  it  had  not  been  the  intention 
of  the  writer  really  to  conceal  what  he  had  written 
from  any  earnest  student,  but  rather  to  lock  it  up  for 
safety  in  a  sort  of  coffer,  of  which  diligence  and  in 
sight  should  be  the  key,  and  the  keen  intelligence  with 
which  the  meaning  was  sought  should  be  the  test  of 
the  seeker's  being  entitled  to  possess  the  secret  treas 
ure. 

Amid  a  great  deal  of  misty  stuff,  he  found  the  docu 
ment  to  consist  chiefly,  contrary  to  his  supposition  be 
forehand,  of  certain  rides  of  life ;  he  would  have  taken 
it,  on  a  casual  inspection,  for  an  essay  of  counsel,  ad 
dressed  by  some  great  and  sagacious  man  to  a  youth 
in  whom  he  felt  an  interest,  —  so  secure  and  good  a 
doctrine  of  life  was  propounded,  such  excellent  max 
ims  there  were,  such  wisdom  in  all  matters  that  came 
within  the  writer's  purview.  It  was  as  much  like  a 
digested  synopsis  of  some  old  philosopher's  wise  rides 
of  conduct,  as  anything  else.  But  on  closer  inspection, 
Septimius,  in  his  unsophisticated  consideration  of  this 
matter,  was  not  so  well  satisfied.  True,  everything 
that  was  said  seemed  not  discordant  with  the  rules  of 
social  morality  ;  not  unwise  :  it  was  shrewd,  sagacious ; 
it  did  not  appear  to  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  man 
kind  ;  but  there  was  something  left  out,  something  un 
satisfactory,  —  what  was  it?  There  was  certainly  a 
cold  spell  in  the  document ;  a  magic,  not  of  fire,  but  of 
ice ;  and  Septimius  the  more  exemplified  its  power,  in 


338  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

that  he  soon  began  to  be  insensible  of  it.  It  affected 
him  as  if  it  had  been  written  by  some  greatly  wise  and 
worldly -experienced  man,  like  the  writer  of  Ecclesi- 
astes ;  for  it  was  full  of  truth.  It  was  a  truth  that 
does  not  make  men  better,  though  perhaps  calmer; 
and  beneath  which  the  buds  of  happiness  curl  up  like 
tender  leaves  in  a  frost.  What  was  the  matter  with 
this  document,  that  the  young  man's  youth  perished 
out  of  him  as  he  read  ?  What  icy  hand  had  written 
it,  so  that  the  heart  was  chilled  out  of  the  reader? 
Not  that  Septimius  was  sensible  of  this  character ;  at 
least,  not  long,  —  for  as  he  read,  there  grew  upon  him 
a  mood  of  calm  satisfaction,  such  as  he  had  never  felt 
before.  His  mind  seemed  to  grow  clearer;  his  per 
ceptions  most  acute ;  his  sense  of  the  reality  of  things 
grew  to  be  such,  that  he  felt  as  if  he  could  touch  and 
handle  all  his  thoughts,  feel  round  about  all  their  out 
line  and  circumference,  and  know  them  with  a  cer 
tainty,  as  if  they  were  material  things.  Not  that  all 
this  was  in  the  document  itself ;  but  by  studying  it  so 
earnestly,  and,  as  it  were,  creating  its  meaning  anew 
for  himself,  out  of  such  illegible  materials,  he  caught 
the  temper  of  the  old  writer's  mind,  after  so  many 
ages  as  that  tract  had  lain  in  the  mouldy  and  musty 
manuscript.  He  was  magnetized  with  him ;  a  pow 
erful  intellect  acted  powerfully  upon  him ;  perhaps, 
even,  there  was  a  sort  of  spell  and  mystic  influence 
imbued  into  the  paper,  and  mingled  with  the  yellow 
ink,  that  steamed  forth  by  the  effort  of  this  young 
man's  earnest  rubbing,  as  it  were,  and  by  the  action 
of  his  mind,  applied  to  it  as  intently  as  he  possibly 
could ;  and  even  his  handling  the  paper,  his  bending 
over  it,  and  breathing  upon  it,  had  its  effect. 

It  is  not  in  our  power,  nor  in  our  wish,  to  produce 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  339 

the  original  form,  nor  yet  the  spirit,  of  a  produc 
tion  which  is  better  lost  to  the  world :  because  it  was 
the  expression  of  a  human  intellect  originally  greatly 
gifted  and  capable  of  high  things,  but  gone  utterly 
astray,  partly  by  its  own  subtlety,  partly  by  yielding 
to  the  temptations  of  the  lower  part  of  its  nature,  by 
yielding  the  spiritual  to  a  keen  sagacity  of  lower 
things,  until  it  was  quite  fallen ;  and  yet  fallen  in  such 
a  way,  that  it  seemed  not  only  to  itself,  but  to  man 
kind,  not  fallen  at  all,  but  wise  and  good,  and  fulfil 
ling  all  the  ends  of  intellect  in  such  a  life  as  ours, 
and  proving,  moreover,  that  earthly  life  was  good,  and 
all  that  the  development  of  our  nature  demanded.  All 
this  is  better  forgotten ;  better  burnt ;  better  never 
thought  over  again  :  and  all  the  more,  because  its  as 
pect  was  so  wise,  and  even  praiseworthy.  But  what 
we  must  preserve  of  it  were  certain  rules  of  life  and 
moral  diet,  not  exactly  expressed  in  the  dociunent,  but 
which,  as  it  were,  on  its  being  duly  received  into  Sep- 
timius's  mind,  were  precipitated  from  the  rich  solution, 
and  crystallized  into  diamonds,  and  which  he  found  to 
be  the  moral  dietetics,  so  to  speak,  by  observing  which 
he  was  to  achieve  the  end  of  earthly  immortality, 
whose  physical  nostrum  was  given  in  the  recipe  which, 
with  the  help  of  Doctor  Portsoaken  and  his  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah,  he  had  already  pretty  satisfactorily  made  out. 

"  Keep  thy  heart  at  seventy  throbs  in  a  minute  ;  all 
more  than  that  wears  away  life  too  quickly.  If  thy 
respiration  be  too  quick,  think  with  thyself  that  thou 
hast  sinned  against  natural  order  and  moderation. 

"  Drink  not  wine  nor  strong  drink ;  and  observe 
that  this  ride  is  worthiest  in  its  sj'nibolic  meaning. 

'•  Bask  daily  in  the  sunshine  and  let  it  rest  on  thy 
heart. 


340  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

"Run  not;  leap  not;  walk  at  a  steady  pace,  and 
count  thy  paces  per  day. 

"  If  thou  feelest,  at  any  time,  a  throb  of  the  heart, 
pause  on  the  instant,  and  analyze  it ;  fix  thy  mental 
eye  steadfastly  upon  it,  and  inquire  why  such  commo 
tion  is. 

"  Hate  not  any  man  nor  woman  ;  be  not  angry,  un 
less  at  any  time  thy  blood  seem  a  little  cold  and  tor 
pid  ;  cut  out  all  rankling  feelings,  they  are  poisonous 
to  thee.  If,  in  thy  waking  moments,  or  in  thy  dreams, 
thou  hast  thoughts  of  strife  or  unpleasantness  with  any 
man,  strive  quietly  with  thyself  to  forget  him. 

"  Have  no  friendships  with  an  imperfect  man,  with 
a  man  in  bad  health,  of  violent  passions,  of  any  char 
acteristic  that  evidently  disturbs  his  own  life,  and  so 
may  have  disturbing  influence  on  thine.  Shake  not 
any  man  by  the  hand,  because  thereby,  if  there  be  any 
evil  in  the  man,  it  is  likely  to  be  communicated  to 
thee. 

"  Kiss  no  woman  if  her  lips  be  red  ;  look  not  upon 
her  if  she  be  very  fair.  Touch  not  her  hand  if  thy 
finger-tips  be  found  to  thrill  with  hers  ever  so  little. 
On  the  whole,  shun  woman,  for  she  is  apt  to  be  a  dis 
turbing  influence.  If  thou  love  her,  all  is  over,  and 
thy  whole  past  and  remaining  labor  and  pains  will  be 
in  vain. 

"  Do  some  decent  degree  of  good  and  kindness  in 
thy  daily  life,  for  the  result  is  a  slight  pleasurable 
sense  that  will  seem  to  warm  and  delectate  thee  with 
felicitous  self -landings  ;  and  all  that  brings  thy 
thoughts  to  thyself  tends  to  invigorate  that  central 
principle  by  the  growth  of  which  thou  art  to  give  thy 
self  indefinite  life.  '< 

"  Do  not  any  act  manifestly  evil ;  it  may  grow  upon 


SEPTIMUS S  F ELTON.  841 

thee,  and  corrode  thee  in  after-years.  Do  not  any  fool 
ish  good  act ;  it  may  change  thy  wise  habits. 

"  Eat  no  spiced  meats.  Young  chickens,  new-fallen 
lambs,  fruits,  bread  four  days  old,  milk,  freshest  but 
ter,  will  make  thy  fleshy  tabernacle  youthful. 

"  From  sick  people,  maimed  wretches,  afflicted  peo 
ple,  —  all  of  whom  show  themselves  at  variance  with 
things  as  they  should  be,  —  from  people  beyond  their 
wits,  from  people  in  a  melancholic  mood,  from  people 
in  extravagant  joy,  from  teething  children,  from  dead 
corpses,  turn  away  thine  eyes  and  depart  elsewhere. 

"  If  beggars  haunt  thee,  let  thy  servants  drive  them 
away,  thou  withdrawing  out  of  ear-shot. 

"  Crying  and  sickly  children,  and  teething  children, 
as  aforesaid,  carefully  avoid.  Drink  the  breath  of 
wholesome  infants  as  often  as  thou  conveniently  canst, 
—  it  is  good  for  thy  purpose ;  also  the  breath  of 
buxom  maids,  if  thou  mayest  without  undue  disturb 
ance  of  the  flesh,  drink  it  as  a  morning-draught,  as 
medicine ;  also  the  breath  of  cows  as  they  return  from 
rich  pasture  at  eventide. 

"  If  thou  seest  human  poverty,  or  suffering,  and  it 
trouble  thee,  strive  moderately  to  relieve  it,  seeing 
that  thus  thy  mood  will  be  changed  to  a  pleasant  self- 
laudation. 

"  Practise  thyself  in  a  certain  continual  smile,  for 
its  tendency  will  be  to  compose  thy  frame  of  being, 
and  keep  thee  from  too  much  wear. 

"  Search  not  to  see  if  thou  hast  a  gray  hair ;  scru 
tinize  not  thy  forehead  to  find  a  wrinkle  ;  nor  the  cor 
ners  of  thy  eyes  to  discover  if  they  be  corrugated. 
Such  things,  being  gazed  at,  daily  take  heart  and 
grow. 

"  Desire  nothing  too  fervently,  not  even  life  :  yet 


342  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON, 

keep  thy  hold  upon  it  mightily,  quietly,  unshakably, 
for  as  long  as  thou  really  art  resolved  to  live,  Death, 
with  all  his  force,  shall  have  no  power  against  thee. 

"  Walk  not  beneath  tottering  ruins,  nor  houses  be 
ing  put  up,  nor  climb  to  the  top  of  a  mast,  nor  ap 
proach  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  nor  stand  in  the  way 
of  the  lightning,  nor  cross  a  swollen  river,  nor  voyage 
at  sea,  nor  ride  a  skittish  horse,  nor  be  shot  at  by  an 
arrow,  nor  confront  a  sword,  nor  put  thyself  in  the 
way  of  violent  death ;  for  this  is  hateful,  and  breaketh 
through  all  wise  rules. 

"  Say  thy  prayers  at  bedtime,  if  thou  deemest  it  will 
give  thee  quieter  sleep ;  yet  let  it  not  trouble  thee  if 
thou  forgettest  them. 

"  Change  thy  shirt  daily  ;  thereby  thou  castest  off 
yesterday's  decay,  and  imbibest  the  freshness  of  the 
morning's  life,  which  enjoy  with  smelling  to  roses,  and 
other  healthy  and  fragrant  flowers,  and  live  the  longer 
for  it.  Roses  are  made  to  that  end. 

"  Read  not  great  poets ;  they  stir  up  thy  heart ;  and 
the  human  heart  is  a  soil  which,  if  deeply  stirred,  is 
apt  to  give  out  noxious  vapors." 

Such  were  some  of  the  precepts  which  Septimius 
gathered  and  reduced  to  definite  form  out  of  this  won 
derful  document ;  and  he  appreciated  their  wisdom, 
and  saw  clearly  that  they  must  be  absolutely  essential 
to  the  success  of  the  medicine  with  which  they  were 
connected.  In  themselves,  almost,  they  seemed  capa 
ble  of  prolonging  life  to  an  indefinite  period,  so  wisely 
were  they  conceived,  so  well  did  they  apply  to  the 
causes  which  almost  invariably  wear  away  this  poor 
short  life  of  men,  years  and  years  before  even  the 
shattered  constitutions  that  they  received  from  their 
forefathers  need  compel  them  to  die.  He  deemed'hiju- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON,  343 

Belf  well  rewarded  for  all  his  labor  and  pains,  should 
nothing  else  follow  but  his  reception  and  proper  ap 
preciation  of  these  wise  rules ;  but  continually,  as  he 
read  the  manuscript,  more  truths,  and,  for  aught  I 
know,  profounder  and  more  practical  ones,  developed 
themselves  ;  and,  indeed,  small  as  the  manuscript 
looked,  Septimius  thought  that  he  should  find  a  vol 
ume  as  big  as  the  most  ponderous  folio  in  the  college 
library  too  small  to  contain  its  wisdom.  It  seemed  to 
drip  and  distil  with  precious  fragrant  drops,  whenever 
he  took  it  out  of  his  desk ;  it  diffused  wisdom  like 
those  vials  of  perfume  which,  small  as  they  look,  keep 
diffusing  an  airy  wealth  of  fragrance  for  years  and 
years  together,  scattering  their  virtue  in  incalculable 
volumes  of  invisible  vapor,  and  yet  are  none  the  less 
in  bulk  for  all  they  give  ;  whenever  he  turned  over 
the  yellow  leaves,  bits  of  gold,  diamonds  of  good  size, 
precious  pearls,  seemed  to  drop  out  from  between 
them. 

And  now  ensued  a  surprise  which,  though  of  a 
happy  kind,  was  almost  too  much  for  him  to  bear  ;  for 
it  made  his  heart  beat  considerably  faster  than  the 
wise  rules  of  his  manuscript  prescribed.  Going  up  on 
his  hill-top,  as  summer  wore  away  (he  had  not  been 
there  for  some  time),  and  walking  by  the  little  flowery 
hillock,  as  so  many  a  hundred  times  before,  what 
should  he  see  there  but  a  new  flower,  that  during  the 
time  he  had  been  poring  over  the  manuscript  so  sedu 
lously  had  developed  itself,  blossomed,  put  forth  its 
petals,  bloomed  iuto  full  perfection,  and  now,  with  the 
dew  of  the  morning  upon  it,  was  waiting  to  offer  itself 
to  Septimius  ?  He  trembled  as  he  looked  at  it,  it  was 
too  much  almost  to  bear,  —  it  was  so  very  beautiful, 
so  very  stately,  so  very  rich,  so  very  mysterious  and 


344  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

wonderful.  It  was  like  a  person,  like  a  life  !  Whence 
did  it  come  ?  He  stood  apart  from  it,  gazing  in  won 
der  ;  tremulously  taking  in  its  aspect,  and  thinking  of 
the  legends  he  had  heard  from  Aunt  Keziah  and  from 
Sibyl  Dacy ;  and  how  that  this  flower,  like  the  one 
that  their  wild  traditions  told  of,  had  grown  out  of  a 
grave,  —  out  of  a  grave  in  which  he  had  laid  one  slain 
by  himself. 

The  flower  was  of  the  richest  crimson,  illuminated 
with  a  golden  centre  of  a  perfect  and  stately  beauty. 
From  the  best  descriptions  that  I  have  been  able  to 
gain  of  it,  it  was  more  like  a  dahlia  than  any  other 
flower  with  which  I  have  acquaintance  ;  yet  it  does 
not  satisfy  me  to  believe  it  really  of  that  species,  for 
the  dahlia  is  not  a  flower  of  any  deep  characteristics, 
either  lively  or  malignant,  and  this  flower,  which  Sep- 
timius  found  so  strangely,  seems  to  have  had  one  or 
the  other.  If  I  have  rightly  understood,  it  had  a  fra 
grance  which  the  dahlia  lacks  ;  and  there  was  some 
thing  hidden  in  its  centre,  a  mystery,  even  in  its  full 
est  bloom,  not  developing  itself  so  openly  as  the  heart 
less,  yet  not  dishonest,  dahlia.  I  remember  in  Eng 
land  to*  have  seen  a  flower  at  Eaton  Hall,  in  Cheshire, 
in  those  magnificent  gardens,  which  may  have  been 
like  this,  but  my  remembrance  of  it  is  not  sufficiently 
distinct  to  enable  me  to  describe  it  better  than  by  say 
ing  that  it  was  crimson,  with  a  gleam  of  gold  in  its 
centre,  which  yet  was  partly  hidden.  It  had  many 
petals  of  great  richness. 

Septimius,  bending  eagerly  over  the  plant,  saw  that 
this  was  not  to  be  the  only  flower  that  it  would  pro 
duce  that  season ;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  to  be  a 
great  abundance  of  them,  a  luxuriant  harvest ;  <as  if 
the  crimson  offspring  of  this  one  plant  would  cover  the 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  315 

whole  hillock,  —  as  if  the  dead  youth  beneath  had 
burst  into  a  resurrection  of  many  crimson  flowers  ! 
And  in  its  veiled  heart,  moreover,  there  was  a  mys 
tery  like  death,  although  it  seemed  to  cover  something 
bright  and  golden. 

Day  after  day  the  strange  crimson  flower  bloomed 
more  and  more  abundantly,  until  it  seemed  almost  to 
cover  the  little  hillock,  which  became  a  mere  bed  of  it, 
apparently  turning  all  its  capacity  of  production  to 
this  flower  ;  for  the  other  plants,  Septimius  thought, 
seemed  to  shrink  away,  and  give  place  to  it,  as  if  they 
were  unworthy  to  compare  with  the  richness,  glory, 
and  worth  of  this  their  queen.  The  fervent  summer 
burned  into  it,  the  dew  and  the  rain  ministered  to  it ; 
the  soil  was  rich,  for  it  was  a  human  heart  contribut 
ing  its  juices,  —  a  heart  in  its  fiery  youth  sodden  in 
its  own  blood,  so  that  passion,  unsatisfied  loves  and 
longings,  ambition  that  never  won  its  object,  tender 
dreams  and  throbs,  angers,  lusts,  hates,  all  concen 
trated  by  life,  came  sprouting  in  it,  and  its  mysteri 
ous  being,  and  streaks  and  shadows,  had  some  mean 
ing  in  each  of  them. 

The  two  girls,  when  they  next  ascended  the  hill, 
saw  the  strange  flower,  and  Hose  admired  it,  and  won 
dered  at  it,  but  stood  at  a  distance,  without  showing 
an  attraction  towards  it,  rather  an  undefined  aversion, 
as  if  she  thought  it  might  be  a  poison  flower ;  at  any 
rate  she  would  not  be  inclined  to  wear  it  in  her  bosom. 
Sibyl  Dacy  examined  it  closely,  touched  its  leaves, 
smelt  it,  looked  at  it  with  a  botanist's  eye,  and  at  last 
remarked  to  Rose,  "  Yes,  it  grows  well  in  this  new 
soil ;  methinks  it  looks  like  a  new  human  life." 

"  What  is  the  strange  flower?  "  asked  Rose. 

"The  Sanguined  sanguinissima"  said  SibyL 


846  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

It  so  happened  about  this  time  that  poor  Aunt  Ke- 
ziah,in  spite  of  her  constant  use  of  that  bitter  mixture 
of  hers,  was  in  a  very  bad  state  of  health.  She  looked 
all  of  an  unpleasant  yellow,  with  bloodshot  eyes ;  she 
complained  terribly  of  her  inwards.  She  had  an  ugly 
rheumatic  hitch  in  her  motion  from  place  to  place,  and 
was  heard  to  mutter  many  wishes  that  she  had  a 
broomstick  to  fly  about  upon,  and  she  used  to  bind  up 
her  head  with  a  dishclout,  or  what  looked  to  be  such, 
and  would  sit  by  the  kitchen  fire  even  in  the  warm 
days,  bent  over  it,  crouching  as  if  she  wanted  to  take 
the  whole  fire  into  her  poor  cold  heart  or  gizzard,  — 
groaning  regularly  with  each  breath  a  spiteful  and 
resentful  groan,  as  if  she  fought  womanfully  with 
her  infirmities  ;  and  she  continually  smoked  her  pipe, 
and  sent  out  the  breath  of  her  complaint  visibly  in 
that  evil  odor  ;  and  sometimes  she  murmured  a  little 
prayer,  but  somehow  or  other  the  evil  and  bitterness, 
acridity,  pepperiness,  of  her  natural  disposition  over 
came  the  acquired  grace  which  compelled  her  to  pray, 
insomuch  that,  after  all,  you  would  have  thought  the 
poor  old  woman  was  cursing  with  all  her  rheumatic 
might.  All  the  time  an  old,  broken  -  nosed,  brown 
earthen  jug,  covered  with  the  lid  of  a  black  teapot, 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  embers,  steaming  forever, 
and  sometimes  bubbling  a  little,  and  giving  a  great 
puff,  as  if  it  were  sighing  and  groaning  in  sympathy 
with  poor  Aunt  Keziah,  and  when  it  sighed  there 
came  a  great  steam  of  herby  fragrance,  not  particu 
larly  pleasant,  into  the  kitchen.  And  ever  and  anon, 
—  half  a  dozen  times  it  might  be,  —  of  an  afternoon, 
Aunt  Keziah  took  a  certain  bottle  from  a  private  re 
ceptacle  of  hers,  and  also  a  teacup,  and  likewise  a^  lit- 
tle3  old-fashioned  silver  teaspoon,  with  which  she  meas- 


SEPTIM1US  FELTON.  347 

ured  three  teaspoon! ills  of  some  spirituous  liquor  into 
the  teacup,  half  filled  the  cup  with  the  hot  decoction, 
drank  it  off,  gave  a  grunt  of  content,  and  for  the  space 
of  half  an  hour  appeared  to  find  life  tolerable. 

But  one  day  poor  Aunt  Keziah  found  herself  una 
ble,  partly  from  rheumatism,  partly  from  other  sickness 
or  weakness,  and  partly  from  dolorous  ill-spirits,  to 
keep  about  any  longer,  so  she  betook  herself  to  her 
bed ;  and  betimes  in  the  forenoon  Septimius  heard  a 
tremendous  knocking  on  the  floor  of  her  bedchamber, 
which  happened  to  be  the  room  above  his  own.  He 
was  the  only  person  in  or  about  the  house ;  so  with 
great  reluctance,  he  left  his  studies,  which  were  upon 
the  recipe,  in  respect  to  which  he  was  trying  to  make 
out  the  mode  of  concoction,  which  was  told  in  such  a 
mysterious  way  that  he  could  not  well  tell  either  the 
quantity  of  the  ingredients,  the  mode  of  trituration, 
nor  in  what  way  their  virtue  was  to  be  extracted  and 
combined. 

Running  hastily  up  stairs,  he  found  Aunt  Keziah 
lying  in  bed,  and  groaning  with  great  spite  and  bit 
terness  ;  so  that,  indeed,  it  seemed  not  improvidential 
that  such  an  inimical  state  of  mind  towards  the  hu 
man  race  was  accompanied  with  an  almost  inability  of 
motion,  else  it  would  not  be  safe  to  be  within  a  consid 
erable  distance  of  her. 

"  Seppy,  you  good-for-nothing,  are  you  going  to  see 
me  lying  here,  dying,  without  trying  to  do  anything 
for  me  ?  " 

"  Dying,  Aunt  Keziah  ?  "  repeated  the  young  man. 
"I  hope  not!  What  can  I  do  for  you?  Shall  I  go 
for  Rose  ?  or  call  a  neighbor  in  ?  or  the  doctor  ?  " 

"No,  no,  you  fool !  "  said  the  afflicted  person.  "You 
»an  do  all  that  anybody  can  for  me ;  and  that  is  to 


348  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

put  my  mixture  on  the  kitchen  fire  till  it  steams,  and 
is  just  ready  to  bubble  ;  then  measure  three  teaspoon- 
f uls  —  or  it  may  be  four,  as  I  am  very  bad  —  of  spirit 
into  a  teacup,  fill  it  half  full,  —  or  it  may  be  quite  full, 
for  I  am  very  bad,  as  I  said  afore ;  six  teaspoonfuls  of 
spirit  into  a  cup  of  mixture,  and  let  me  have  it  as 
soon  as  may  be ;  and  don't  break  the  cup,  nor  spill  the 
precious  mixture,  for  goodness  knows  when  I  can  go 
into  the  woods  to  gather  any  more.  Ah  me !  ah  me  ! 
it 's  a  wicked,  miserable  world,  and  I  am  the  most  mis 
erable  creature  in  it.  Be  quick,  you  good-for-nothing, 
and  do  as  I  say  !  " 

Septimius  hastened  down ;  but  as  he  went  a  thought 
came  into  his  head,  which  it  occurred  to  him  might  re 
sult  in  great  benefit  to  Aunt  Keziah,  as  well  as  to  the 
great  cause  of  science  and  human  good,  and  to  the 
promotion  of  his  own  purpose,  in  the  first  place.  A 
day  or  two  ago,  he  had  gathered  several  of  the  beauti 
ful  flowers,  and  laid  them  in  the  fervid  sun  to  dry ;  and 
they  now  seemed  to  be  in  about  the  state  in  which  the 
old  woman  was  accustomed  to  use  her  herbs,  so  far  as 
Septimius  had  observed.  Now  if  these  flowers  were 
really,  as  there  was  so  much  reason  for  supposing,  the 
one  ingredient  that  had  for  hundreds  of  years  been 
missing  out  of  Aunt  Keziah's  nostrum,  —  if  it  was 
this  which  that  strange  Indian  sagamore  had  mingled 
with  his  drink  with  such  beneficial  effect,  —  why 
should  not  Septimius  now  restore  it,  and  if  it  would 
not  make  his  beloved  aunt  young  again,  at  least  as 
suage  the  violent  symptoms,  and  perhaps  prolong  her 
valuable  life  some  years,  for  the  solace  and  delight  of 
her  numerous  friends?  Septimius,  like  other  people 
of  investigating  and  active  minds,  had  a  greats  ten 
dency  to  experiment,  and  so  good  an  opportunity  as  the 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  349 

present,  where  (perhaps  he  thought)  there  was  so  little 
to  be  risked  at  worst,  and  so  much  to  be  gained,  was 
not  to  be  neglected  ;  so,  without  more  ado,  he  stirred 
three  of  the  crimson  flowers  into  the  earthen  jug,  set 
it  on  the  edge  of  the  fire,  stirred  it  well,  and  when  it 
steamed,  threw  up  little  scarlet  bubbles,  and  was  about 
to  boil,  he  measured  out  the  spirits,  as  Aunt  Keziah 
had  bidden  him  and  then  filled  the  teacup. 

"  Ah,  this  will  do  her  good  ;  little  does  she  think, 
poor  old  thing,  what  a  rare  and  costly  medicine  is 
about  to  be  given  her.  This  will  set  her  on  her  feet 
again." 

The  hue  was  somewhat  changed,  he  thought,  from 
what  he  had  observed  of  Aunt  Keziah's  customary  de 
coction  ;  instead  of  a  turbid  yellow,  the  crimson  pet 
als  of  the  flower  had  tinged  it,  and  made  it  almost  red  ; 
not  a  brilliant  red,  however,  nor  the  least  inviting  in 
appearance.  Septiinius  smelt  it,  and  thought  he  could 
distinguish  a  little  of  the  rich  odor  of  the  flower,  but 
was  not  sure.  He  considered  whether  to  taste  it ;  but 
the  horrible  flavor  of  Aunt  Keziah's  decoction  re 
curred  strongly  to  his  remembrance,  and  he  concluded 
that  were  he  evidently  at  the  point  of  death,  he  might 
possibly  be  bold  enough  to  taste  it  again  ;  but  that 
nothing  short  of  the  hope  of  a  century's  existence  at 
least  would  repay  another  taste  of  that  fierce  and 
nauseous  bitterness.  Aunt  Keziah  loved  it ;  and  as  she 
brewed,  so  let  her  drink. 

He  went  up  stairs,  careful  not  to  spill  a  drop  of  the 
brimming  cup,  and  approached  the  old  woman's  bed 
side,  where  she  lay,  groaning  as  before,  and  breaking- 
out  into  a  spiteful  croak  the  moment  he  was  within 
ear-shot. 

"  You  don't  care  whether  I  live  or  die,'1  said  she. 


350  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"You  Ve  been  waiting  in  hopes  I  shall  die,  and  so  save 
yourself  further  trouble." 

"  By  no  means,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius. 
"  Here  is  the  medicine,  which  I  have  warmed,  and 
measured  out,  and  micgled,  as  well  as  I  knew  how ; 
and  I  think  it  will  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good." 

"  Won't  you  taste  it,  Seppy,  my  dear?  "  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  mollified  by  the  praise  of  her  beloved  mixture. 
"  Drink  first,  dear,  so  that  my  sick  old  lips  need  not 
taint  it.  You  look  pale,  Septimius ;  it  will  do  you 
good." 

"  No,  Aunt  Keziah,  I  do  not  need  it ;  and  it  were  a 
pity  to  waste  your  precious  drink,"  said  he. 

"It  does  not  look  quite  the  right  color,"  said  Aunt 
Keziah,  as  she  took  the  cup  in  her  hand.  "  You  must 
have  dropped  some  soot  into  it."  Then,  as  she  raised 
it  to  her  lips,  "It  does  not  smell  quite  right.  But, 
woe  's  me  !  how  can  I  expect  anybody  but  myself  to 
make  this  precious  drink  as  it  should  be  ?  " 

She  drank  it  off  at  two  gulps  ;  for  she  appeared  to 
hurry  it  off  faster  than  usual,  as  if  not  tempted  by  the 
exquisiteness  of  its  flavor  to  dwell  upon  it  so  long. 

"  You  have  not  made  it  just  right,  Seppy,"  said  she 
in  a  milder  tone  than  before,  for  she  seemed  to  feel 
the  customary  soothing  influence  of  the  draught,  "  but 
you  '11  do  better  the  next  time.  It  had  a  queer  taste, 
methought ;  or  is  it  that  my  mouth  is  getting  out  of 
taste  ?  Hard  times  it  will  be  for  poor  Aunt  Kezzy,  if 
she  's  to  lose  her  taste  for  the  medicine  that,  under 
Providence,  has  saved  her  life  for  so  many  years." 

She  gave  back  the  cup  to  Septimius,  after  looking  a 
little  curiously  at  the  dregs. 

"  It  looks  like  bloodroot,  don't  it  ?  "  said  she.  "  Per 
haps  it 's  my  own  fault  after  all.  I  gathered  a  fresh 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTOX.  351 

bunch  of  the  yarbs  yesterday  afternoon,  and  put  them 
to  steep,  and  it  may  be  I  was  a  little  blind,  for  it  was 
between  daylight  and  dark,  and  the  moon  shone  on 
me  before  I  had  finished.  I  thought  how  the  witches 
used  to  gather  their  poisonous  stuff  at  such  times,  and 
what  pleasant  uses  they  made  of  it,  —  but  those  are 
sinful  thoughts,  Seppy,  sinful  thoughts !  so  I  '11  say  a 
prayer  and  try  to  go  to  sleep.  I  feel  very  noddy  all 
at  once." 

Septimius  drew  the  bedclothes  up  about  her  shoul 
ders,  for  she  complained  of  being  very  chilly,  and, 
carefully  putting  her  stick  within  reach,  went  down 
to  his  own  room,  and  resumed  his  studies,  trying  to 
make  out  from  those  aged  hieroglyphics,  to  which  he 
was  now  so  well  accustomed,  what  was  the  precise 
method  of  making  the  elixir  of  immortality.  Some 
times,  as  men  in  deep  thought  do,  he"  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  walked  to  and  fro  the  four  or  five  steps  or 
so  that  conveyed  him  from  end  to  end  of  his  little 
room.  At  one  of  these  times  he  chanced  to  look  in  the 
little  looking-glass  that  hung  between  the  windows, 
and  was  startled  at  the  paleness  of  his  face.  It  was 
quite  white,  indeed.  Septimius  was  not  in  the  least  a 
foppish  young  man  ;  careless  he  was  in  dress,  though 
often  his  apparel  took  an  unsought  picturesqueness 
that  set  off  his  slender,  agile  figure,  perhaps  from 
some  quality  of  spontaneous  arrangement  that  he  had 
inherited  from  his  Indian  ancestry.  Yet  many  wo 
men  might  have  found  a  charm  in  that  dark,  thought 
ful  face,  with  its  hidden  fire  and  energy,  although 
Septimius  never  thought  of  its  being  handsome,  and 
seldom  looked  at  it.  Yet  now  he  was  drawn  to  it  by 
seeing  how  strangely  white  it  was,  and,  gazing  at  it, 
he  observed  that  since  he  considered  it  last,  a  very 


352  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

deep  furrow,  or  corrugation,  or  fissure,  it  might  al 
most  be  called,  had  indented  his  brow,  rising  from  the 
commencement  of  his  nose  towards  the  centre  of  the 
forehead.  And  he  knew  it  was  his  brooding  thought, 
his  fierce,  hard  determination,  his  intense  concentra- 
tiveness  for  so  many  months,  that  had  been  digging 
that  furrow ;  and  it  must  prove  indeed  a  potent  spe 
cific  of  the  life-water  that  would  smooth  that  away, 
and  restore  him  all  the  youth  and  elasticity  that  he 
had  buried  in  that  profound  grave. 

But  why  was  he  so  pale  ?  He  could  have  supposed 
himself  startled  by  some  ghastly  thing  that  he  had  just 
seen ;  by  a  corpse  in  the  next  room,  for  instance  ;  or 
else  by  the  foreboding  that  one  would  soon  be  there  ; 
but  yet  he  was  conscious  of  110  tremor  in  his  frame,  no 
terror  in  his  heart ;  as  why  should  there  be  any  ? 
Feeling  his  ow"n  pulse,  he  found  the  strong,  regular 
beat  that  should  be  there.  He  was  not  ill,  nor  af 
frighted  ;  not  expectant  of  any  pain.  Then  why  so 
ghastly  pale  ?  And  why,  moreover,  Septimius,  did 
you  listen  so  earnestly  for  any  sound  in  Aunt  Keziah's 
chamber?  Why  did  you  creep  on  tiptoe,  once,  twice, 
three  times,  up  to  the  old  woman's  chamber,  and  put 
your  ear  to  the  keyhole,  and  listen  breathlessly  ? 
Well ;  it  must  have  been  that  he  was  subconscious 
that  he  was  trying  a  bold  experiment,  and  that  he 
had  taken  this  poor  old  woman  to  be  the  medium  of 
it,  in  the  hope,  of  course,  that  it  would  turn  out  well : 
yet  with  other  views  than  her  interest  in  the  matter. 
What  was  the  harm  of  that  ?  Medical  men,  no  doubt, 
are  always  doing  so,  and  he  was  a  medical  man  for  the 
time.  Then  why  was  he  so  pale  ? 

He  sat  down  and  fell  into  a  reverie,  which  perha*ps 
was  partly  suggested  by  that  chief  furrow  which  he 


zEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  353 

had  seen,  and  which  we  have  spoken  of,  in  his  brow. 
He  considered  whether  there  was  anything  in  this 
pursuit  of  his  that  used  up  life  particularly  fast ;  so 
that,  perhaps,  unless  he  were  successful  soon,  he  should 
be  incapable  of  renewal ;  for,  looking  within  himself, 
and  considering  his  mode  of  being,  he  had  a  singu 
lar  fancy  that  his  heart  was  gradually  drying  up,  and 
that  he  must  continue  to  get  some  moisture  for  it,  or 
else  it  would  soon  be  like  a  withered  leaf.  Supposing 
his  pursuit  were  vain,  what  a  waste  he  was  making  of 
that  little  treasure  of  golden  days,  which  was  his  all ! 
Could  this  be  called  life,  which  he  was  leading  now  ? 
How  unlike  that  of  other  young  men !  How  unlike 
that  of  Robert  Hagburn,  for  example !  There  had 
come  news  yesterday  of  his  having  performed  a  gal 
lant  part  in  the  battle  of  Monmouth,  and  being  pro 
moted  to  be  a  captain  for  his  brave  conduct.  With 
out  thinking  of  long  life,  he  really  lived  in  heroic 
actions  and  emotions ;  he  got  much  life  in  a  little,  and 
did  not  fear  to  sacrifice  a  lifetime  of  torpid  breaths,  if 
necessary,  to  the  ecstasy  of  a  glorious  death ! 

\_It  appears  from  a  written  sketch  by  the  author  of 
this  story,  that  he  changed  his  first  plan  of  making 
Septimius  and  Rose  lovers,  and  she  was  to  be  repre 
sented  as  his  half-sister,  and  in  the  copy  for  publica 
tion  this  alteration  would  have  been  made.  —  ED.] 

And  then  Robert  loved,  too,  loved  his  sister  Rose, 
and  felt,  doubtless,  an  immortality  in  that  passion. 
Why  could  not  Septimius  love  too  ?  It  was  forbidden  ! 
Well,  no  matter ;  whom  could  he  have  loved  ?  Who, 
in  all  this  world  would  have  been  suited  to  his  secret, 
brooding  heart,  that  he  could  have  let  her  into  its 
mysterious  chambers,  and  walked  with  her  from  one 
cavernous  gloom  to  another,  am]  said,  u  Here  are  nry 

VOL.  xi.  23 


354  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

treasures.  I  make  thee  mistress  of  all  these  ;  with  all 
these  goods  I  thee  endow."  And  then,  revealing  to 
her  his  great  secret  and  purpose  of  gaining  immortal 
life,  have  said  :  "  This  shall  be  thine,  too.  Thou  shalt 
share  with  me.  We  will  walk  along  the  endless  path 
together,  and  keep  one  another's  hearts  warm,  and  so 
be  content  to  live." 

Ah,  Septimius  !  but  now  you  are  getting  beyond 
those  rules  of  yours,  which,  cold  as  they  are,  have  been 
drawn  out  of  a  subtle  philosophy,  and  might,  were  it 
possible  to  follow  them  out,  suffice  to  do  all  that  you 
ask  of  them ;  but  if  you  break  them,  you  do  it  at  the 
peril  of  your  earthly  immortality.  Each  warmer  and 
quicker  throb  of  the  heart  wears  away  so  much  of  life. 
The  passions,  the  affections,  are  a  wine  not  to  be  in 
dulged  in.  Love,  above  all,  being  in  its  essence  an 
immortal  thing,  cannot  be  long  contained  in  an  earthly 
body,  but  would  wear  it  out  with  its  own  secret  power, 
softly  invigorating  as  it  seems.  You  must  be  cold, 
therefore,  Septimius ;  you  must  not  even  earnestly  and 
passionately  desire  this  immortality  that  seems  so  nec 
essary  to  you.  Else  the  very  wish  will  prevent  the 
possibility  of  its  fulfilment. 

By  and  by,  to  call  him  out  of  these  rhapsodies,  came 
Rose  home ;  and  finding  the  kitchen  hearth  cold,  and 
Aunt  Keziah  missing,  and  no  dinner  by  the  fire,  which 
was  smouldering,  —  nothing  but  the  portentous  earthen 
jug,  which  fumed,  and  sent  out  long,  ill-flavored  sighs, 
she  tapped  at  Septimius's  door,  and  asked  him  what 
was  the  matter. 

"  Aunt  Keziah  has  had  an  ill  turn,"  said  Septimius, 
"  and  has  gone  to  bed." 

"  Poor  auntie !  "  said  Eose,  with  her  quick  sym 
pathy.  "  I  will  this  moment  run  up  and  see  if  she 
needs  anything." 


SEPTIMIUS   FELTON.  355 

"No,  Rose,"  said  Septimius,  "she  has  doubtless  gone 
to  sleep,  and  will  awake  as  well  as  usual.  It  would 
displease  her  much  were  you  to  miss  your  afternoon 
school ;  so  you  had  better  set  the  table  with  whatever 
there  is  left  of  yesterday's  dinner,  and  leave  me  to 
take  care  of  auntie." 

"  "Well,"  said  Rose,  "  she  loves  you  best ;  but  if  she 
be  really  ill,  I  shall  give  up  my  school  and  nurse  her." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Septimius,  "  she  will  be  about  the 
house  again  to-morrow." 

So  Rose  ate  her  frugal  dinner  (consisting  chiefly 
of  purslain,  and  some  other  garden  herbs,  which  her 
thrifty  aunt  had  prepared  for  boiling),  and  went  away 
as  usual  to  her  school ;  for  Aunt  Keziah,  as  afore 
said,  had  never  encouraged  the  tender  ministrations  of 
Rose,  whose  orderly,  womanly  character,  with  its  well- 
defined  orb  of  daily  and  civilized  duties,  had  always 
appeared  to  strike  her  as  tame ;  and  she  once  said  to 
her,  "  You  are  no  squaw,  child,  and  you  '11  never  make 
a  witch."  Nor  would  she  even  so  much  as  let  Rose 
put  her  tea  to  steep,  or  do  anything  whatever  for  her 
self  personally ;  though,  certainly,  she  was  not  back 
ward  in  requiring  of  her  a  due  share  of  labor  for  the 
general  housekeeping. 

Septimius  was  sitting  in  his  room,  as  the  afternoon 
wore  away ;  because,  for  some  reason  or  other,  or,  quite 
as  likely,  for  no  reason  at  all,  he  did  not  air  himself 
and  his  thoughts,  as  usual,  on  the  hill ;  so  he  was 
sitting  musing,  thinking,  looking  into  his  mysterious 
manuscript,  when  he  heard  Aunt  Keziah  moving  in 
the  chamber  above.  First  she  seemed  to  rattle  a 
chair ;  then  she  began  a  slow,  regular  beat  with  the 
stick  which  Septimius  had  left  by  her  bedside,  and 
which  startled  him  strangely,  —  so  that,  indeed,  his 


356  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

heart  beat  faster  than  the  five-and-seventy  throbs  to 
which  he  was  restricted  by  the  wise  rules  that  he  had 
digested.  So  he  ran  hastily  up  stairs,  and  behold, 
Aunt  Keziah  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  looking  very  wild, 
—  so  wild  that  you  would  have  thought  she  was  going 
to  fly  up  chimney  the  next  minute ;  her  gray  hair  all 
dishevelled,  her  eyes  staring,  her  hands  clutching  for 
ward,  while  she  gave  a  sort  of  howl,  what  with  pain 
and  agitation. 

"  Seppy!  Seppy!  "  said  she,  —  "Seppy,  my  darling! 
are  you  quite  sure  you  remember  how  to  make  that 
precious  drink  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  Aunt  Keziah,"  said  Septimius,  in 
wardly  much  alarmed  by  her  aspect,  but  preserving  a 
true  Indian  composure  of  outward  mien.  "  I  wrote  it 
down,  and  could  say  it  by  heart  besides^  Shall  I 
make  you  a  fresh  pot  of  it  ?  for  I  have  thrown  away 
the  other." 

"  That  was  well,  Seppy,"  said  the  poor  old  woman, 
"for  there  is  something  wrong  about  it;  but  I  want 
no  more,  for,  Seppy  dear,  I  am  going  fast  out  of  this 
world,  where  you  and  that  precious  drink  were  my 
only  treasures  and  comforts.  I  wanted  to  know  if  you 
remembered  the  recipe ;  it  is  all  I  have  to  leave  you, 
and  the  more  you  drink  of  it,  Seppy,  the  better.  Only 
see  to  make  it  right !  " 

"  Dear  auntie,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  said  Sep 
timius,  in  much  consternation,  but  still  calm.  "  Let  me 
run  for  the  doctor,  —  for  the  neighbors  ?  something 
must  be  done  !  " 

The  old  woman  contorted  herself  as  if  there  were  a 
fearful  time  in  her  insides :  and  grinned,  and  twisted 
the  yellow  ugliness  of  her  face,  and  groaned,  .and 
howled  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  tough  and  fierce  kind  of 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  357 

endurance  with  which  she  fought  with  her  anguish, 
and  would  not  yield  to  it  a  jot,  though  she  allowed 
herself  the  relief  of  shrieking  savagely  at  it,  —  much 
more  like  a  defiance  than  a  cry  for  mercy. 

"  No  doctor  !  no  woman  !  "  said  she  ;  k"  if  my  drink 
could  not  save  me,  what  would  a  doctor's  foolish  pills 
and  powders  do  ?  And  a  woman  !  If  old  Martha  Den- 
ton,  the  witch,  were  alive,  I  would  be  glad  to  see  her. 
But  other  women  !  Pah  !  Ah !  Ai !  Oh !  Phew  ! 
Ah,  Seppy,  what  a  mercy  it  would  be  now  if  I  could 
set  to  and  blaspheme  a  bit,  and  shake  my  fist  at  the 
sky !  But  I  'm  a  Christian  woman,  Seppy,  —  a  Chris 
tian  woman." 

"  Shall  I  send  for  the  minister,  Aunt  Keziah  ?  " 
asked  Septimius.  "  Pie  is  a  good  man,  and  a  wise  one." 

"Xo  minister  for  me,  Seppy,"  said  Aunt  Keziah, 
howling  as  if  somebody  were  choking  her.  "  He  may 
be  a  good  man,  and  a  wise  one,  but  he's  not  wise 
enough  to  know  the  way  to  my  heart,  and  never  a  man 
as  was  !  Eh,  Seppy,  I  'm  a  Christian  woman,  but  I  'm 
not  like  other  Christian  women  ;  and  I  'm  glad  I  'm 
going  away  from  this  stupid  world.  I  've  not  been  a 
bad  woman,  and  I  deserve  credit  for  it,  for  it  would 
have  suited  me  a  great  deal  better  to  be  bad.  Oh,  what 
a  delightful  time  a  witch  must  have  had,  starting  off 
up  chimney  on  her  broomstick  at  midnight,  and  look 
ing  down  from  aloft  in  the  sky  on  the  sleeping  village 
far  below,  with  its  steeple  pointing  up  at  her,  so  that 
she  might  touch  the  golden  weathercock !  You,  mean 
while,  in  such  an  ecstasy,  and  all  below  you  the  dull, 
innocent,  sober  humankind ;  the  wife  sleeping  by  her 
husband,  or  mother  by  her  child,  squalling  with  wind 
in  its  stomach ;  the  goodman  driving  up  his  cattle  and 
his  plough,  —  all  so  innocent,  all  so  stupid,  with  their 


358  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

dull  days  just  alike,  one  after  another.  And  you  up 
in  the  air,  sweeping  away  to  some  nook  in  the  forest ! 
Ha !  What 's  that  ?  A  wizard  !  Ha  !  ha  !  Known 
below  as  a  deacon !  There  is  Goody  Chickering ! 
How  quietly  she  sent  the  young  people  to  bed  after 
prayers !  There  is  an  Indian  ;  there  a  nigger  ;  they 
all  have  equal  rights  and  privileges  at  a  witch-meeting. 
Phew !  the  wind  blows  cold  up  here  !  Why  does  not 
the  Black  Man  have  the  meeting  at  his  own  kitchen 
hearth  ?  Ho  !  ho !  Oh  dear  me  !  But  I  'in  a  Chris 
tian  woman  and  no  witch  ;  but  those  must  have  been 
gallant  times !  " 

Doubtless  it  was  a  partial  wandering  of  the  mind 
that  took  the  poor  old  woman  away  on  this  old-witch 
flight ;  and  it  was  very  curious  and  pitiful  to  witness 
the  compunction  with  which  she  returned  to  herself 
and  took  herself  to  task  for  the  preference  which,  in 
her  wild  nature,  she  could  not  help  giving  to  harum- 
scarum  wickedness  over  tame  goodness.  Now  she  tried 
to  compose  herself,  and  talk  reasonably  and  godly. 

"  Ah,  Septimius,  my  dear  child,  never  give  way  to 
temptation,  nor  consent  to  be  a  wizard,  though  the 
Black  Man  persuade  you  ever  so  hard.  I  know  he 
will  try.  He  has  tempted  me,  but  I  never  yielded, 
never  gave  him  his  will;  and  never  do  you,  my  boy, 
though  you,  with  your  dark  complexion,  and  your 
brooding  brow,  and  your  eye  veiled,  only  when  it  sud 
denly  looks  out  with  a  flash  of  fire  in  it,  are  the  sort 
of  man  he  seeks  most,  and  that  afterwards  serves  him. 
But  don't  do  it,  Septimius.  But  if  you  could  be  an 
Indian,  me  thinks  it  would  be  better  than  this  tame 
life  we  lead.  'T  would  have  been  better  for  me,  at  all 
events.  Oh,  how  pleasant  't  would  have  been  to  spend 
my  life  wandering  in  the  woods,  smelling  the  pines  and 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  359 

the  hemlock  all  day,  and  fresh  things  of  all  kinds,  and 
no  kitchen  work  to  do,  —  not  to  rake  up  the  fire,  nor 
sweep  the  room,  nor  make  the  beds,  —  but  to  sleep  on 
fresh  boughs  in  a  wigwam,  with  the  leaves  still  on  the 
branches  that  made  the  roof !  And  then  to  see  the 
deer  brought  in  by  the  red  hunter,  and  the  blood 
streaming  from  the  arrow-dart!  Ah!  and  the  fight 
too !  and  the  scalping !  and,  perhaps,  a  woman  might 
creep  into  the  battle,  and  steal  the  wounded  enemy 
away  of  her  tribe  and  scalp  him,  and  be  praised  for 
it !  O  Seppy,  how  I  hate  the  thought  of  the  dull  life 
women  lead  !  A  white  woman's  life  is  so  dull !  Thank 
Heaven,  I  'm  done  with  it !  If  I  'm  ever  to  live  again, 
may  I  be  whole  Indian,  please  my  Maker !  " 

After  this  goodly  outburst,  Aunt  Keziah  lay  quietly 
for  a  few  moments,  and  her  skinny  claws  being  clasped 
together,  and  her  yellow  visage  grinning,  as  pious  an 
aspect  as  was  attainable  by  her  harsh  and  pain-dis 
torted  features,  Septimius  perceived  that  she  was  in 
prayer.  And  so  it  proved  by  what  followed,  for  the 
old  woman  turned  to  him  with  a  grim  tenderness  on 
her  face,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  be  taken  in  his 
own.  He  clasped  the  bony  talon  in  both  his  hands. 

"  Seppy,  my  dear,  I  feel  a  great  peace,  and  I  don't 
think  there  is  so  very  much  to  trouble  me  in  the  other 
world.  It  won't  be  all  house-work,  and  keeping  de 
cent,  and  doing  like  other  people  there.  I  suppose  I 
need  n't  expect  to  ride  on  a  broomstick,  —  that  would 
be  wrong  in  any  kind  of  a  world,  —  but  there  may  be 
woods  to  wander  in,  and  a  pipe  to  smoke  in  the  air  of 
heaven  ;  trees  to  hear  the  wind  in,  and  to  smell  of, 
and  all  such  natural,  happy  things  ;  and  by  and  by  I 
shall  hope  to  see  you  there,  Seppy,  my  darling  boy  I 
Come  by  and  by ;  't  is  n't  worth  your  while  to  live  for- 


860  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ever,  even  if  you  should  find  out  what 's  wanting  in  the 
drink  I  've  taught  you.  I  can  see  a  little  way  into  the 
next  world  now,  and  I  see  it  to  be  far  better  than  this 
heavy  and  wretched  old  place.  You  '11  die  when  your 
time  comes  ;  won't  you,  Seppy,  my  darling?" 

"  Yes,  dear  auntie,  when  my  time  comes,"  said  Sep- 
timius.  "  Very  likely  I  shall  want  to  live  no  longer 
by  that  time." 

"  Likely  not,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  I  'm  sure  I 
don't.  It  is  like  going  to  sleep  on  my  mother's  breast 
to  die.  So  good  night,  dear  Seppy  !  " 

"  Good  night,  and  God  bless  you,  auntie  !  "  said  Sep- 
timius,  with  a  gush  of  tears  blinding  him,  spite  of  his 
Indian  nature. 

The  old  woman  composed  herself,  and  lay  quite  still 
and  decorous  for  a  short  time  ;  then,  rousing  herself  a 
little,  "  Septiinius,"  said  she,  "  is  there  just  a  little 
drop  of  my  drink  left  ?  Not  that  I  want  to  live  any 
longer,  but  if  I  could  sip  ever  so  little,  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  step  into  the  other  world  quite  cheery,  with  it 
warm  in  my  heart,  and  not  feel  shy  and  bashful  at  go 
ing  among  strangers." 

"  Not  one  drop,  auntie." 

"  Ah,  well,  no  matter !  It  was  not  quite  right,  that 
last  cup.  It  had  a  queer  taste.  What  could  you  have 
put  into  it,  Seppy,  darling  ?  But  no  matter,  no  mat 
ter !  It 's  a  precious  stuff,  if  you  make  it  right.  Don't 
forget  the  herbs,  Septimius.  Something  wrong  had 
certainly  got  into  it." 

These,  except  for  some  murmurings,  some  groanings 
and  unintelligible  whisperings,  were  the  last  utterances 
of  poor  Aunt  Keziah,  who  did  not  live  a  great  while 
longer,  and  at  last  passed  away  in  a  great  sigh^like  a 
gust  of  wind  among  the  trees,  she  having  just  before 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  861 

stretched  out  her  hand  again  and  grasped  that  of  Sep- 
timius  ;  and  he  sat  watching  her  and  gazing  at  her, 
wondering  and  horrified,  touched,  shocked  by  death,  of 
which  he  had  so  unusual  a  terror,  —  and  by  the  death 
of  this  creature  especially,  with  whom  he  felt  a  sym 
pathy  that  did  not  exist  with  any  other  person  now 
living.  So  long  did  he  sit,  holding  her  hand,  that  at 
last  he  was  conscious  that  it  was  growing  cold  within 
his  own,  and  that  the  stiffening  fingers  clutched  him, 
as  if  they  were  disposed  to  keep  their  hold,  and  not 
forego  the  tie  that  had  been  so  peculiar. 

Then  rushing  hastily  forth,  he  told  the  nearest  avail 
able  neighbor,  who  was  Robert  Hagburn's  mother ;  and 
she  summoned  some  of  her  gossips,  and  came  to  the 
house,  and  took  poor  Aunt  Keziah  in  charge.  They 
talked  of  her  with  no  great  respect,  I  fear,  nor  much 
sorrow,  nor  sense  that  the  community  would  suffer  any 
great  deprivation  in  her  loss ;  for,  in  their  view,  she 
was  a  dram-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  cross-grained  old 
maid,  and,  as  some  thought,  a  witch ;  and,  at  any  rate, 
with  too  much  of  the  Indian  blood  in  her  to  be  of  much 
use ;  and  they  hoped  that  now  Rose  Gariield  would 
have  a  pleasanter  life,  and  Septimius  study  to  be  a 
minister,  and  all  things  go  well,  and  the  place  be  cheer- 
fuller.  They  found  Aunt  Keziah's  bottle  in  the  cup 
board,  and  tasted  and  smelt  of  it. 

"  Good  West  Indjy  as  ever  I  tasted,"  said  Mrs. 
Hagburn  ;  "  and  there  stands  her  broken  pitcher,  on 
the  hearth.  Ah,  empty !  I  never  could  bring  my 
mind  to  taste  it ;  but  now  I  'm  sorry  I  never  did,  for 
I  suppose  nobody  in  the  world  can  make  any  more 
of  it." 

Septimius,  meanwhile,  had  betaken  himself  to  the 
hill-top,  which  was  his  place  of  refuge  on  all  occasions 


862  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

when  the  house  seemed  too  stifled  to  contain  him  ,* 
and  there  he  walked  to  and  fro,  with  a  certain  kind 
of  calmness  and  indifference  that  he  wondered  at ;  for 
there  is  hardly  anything  in  this  world  so  strange  as 
the  quiet  surface  that  spreads  over  a  man's  mind  in 
his  greatest  emergencies :  so  that  he  deems  himself 
perfectly  quiet,  and  upbraids  himself  with  riot  feeling 
anything,  when  indeed  he  is  passion-stirred.  As  Sep- 
timius  walked  to  and  fro,  he  looked  at  the  rich  crim 
son  flowers,  which  seemed  to  be  blooming  in  greater 
profusion  and  luxuriance  than  ever  before.  He  had 
made  an  experiment  with  these  flowers,  and  he  was 
curious  to  know  whether  that  experiment  had  been  the 
cause  of  Aunt  Keziah's  death.  Not  that  he  felt  any 
remorse  therefor,  in  any  case,  or  believed  himself  to 
have  committed  a  crime,  having  really  intended  and 
desired  nothing  but  good.  I  suppose  such  things  (and 
he  must  be  a  lucky  physician,  methinks,  who  has  no 
such  mischief  within  his  own  experience)  never  weigh 
with  deadly  weight  on  any  man's  conscience.  Some 
thing  must  be  risked  in  the  cause  of  science,  and  in 
desperate  cases  something  must  be  risked  for  the  pa 
tient's  self.  Septimius,  much  as  he  loved  life,  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  put  his  own  life  to  the  same  risk 
that  he  had  imposed  on  Aunt  Keziah  ;  or,  if  he  did 
hesitate,  it  would  have  been  only  because,  if  the  exper 
iment  turned  out  disastrously  in  his  own  person,  he 
would  not  be  in  a  position  to  make  another  and  more 
successful  trial ;  whereas,  by  trying  it  on  others,  the 
man  of  science  still  reserves  himself  for  new  efforts, 
and  does  not  put  all  the  hopes  of  the  world,  so  far  as 
involved  in  his  success,  on  one  cast  of  the  die. 

By  and  by  he  met  Sibyl  Dacy,  who  had  ascended 
the  hill,  as  was  usual  with  her,  at  sunset,  and  came 
towards  him,  gazing  earnestly  in  his  face. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  363 

"  They  tell  me  poor  Aunt  Keziah  is  no  more,"  said 
she. 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  Septimius. 

"  The  flower  is  a  very  famous  medicine,"  said  the 
girl,  "  but  everything  depends  on  its  being  applied  in 
the  proper  way." 

"  Do  you  know  the  way,  then  ?  "  asked  Septimius. 

"  No ;  you  should  ask  Doctor  Portsoaken  about  that," 
said  Sibyl. 

Doctor  Portsoaken !  And  so  he  should  consult  him. 
That  eminent  chemist  and  scientific  man  had  evidently 
heard  of  the  recipe,  and  at  all  events  would  be  ac 
quainted  with  the  best  methods  of  getting  the  virtues 
out  of  flowers  and  herbs,  some  of  which,  Septimius 
had  read  enough  to  know,  were  poison  in  one  phase 
and  shape  of  preparation,  and  possessed  of  richest  vir 
tues  in  others ;  their  poison,  as  one  may  say,  serving 
as  a  dark  and  terrible  safeguard,  which  Providence 
has  set  to  watch  over  their  preciousness  ;  even  as  a 
dragon,  or  some  wild  and  fiendish  spectre,  is  set  to 
watch  and  keep  hidden  gold  and  heaped-up  diamonds. 
A  dragon  always  waits  on  everything  that  is  very  good. 
And  what  would  deserve  the  watch  and  ward  of  dan 
ger  of  a  dragon,  or  something  more  fatal  than  a  dragon, 
if  not  this  treasure  of  which  Septimius  was  in  quest, 
and  the  discovery  and  possession  of  which  would  ena 
ble  him  to  break  down  one  of  the  strongest  barriers  of 
nature  ?  It  ought  to  be  death,  he  acknowledged  it,  to 
attempt  such  a  thing ;  for  how  changed  would  be  life 
if  he  should  succeed ;  how  necessary  it  was  that  man 
kind  should  be  defended  from  such  attempts  on  the 
general  rule  on  the  part  of  all  but  him.  How  could 
Death  be  spared?  —  then  the  sire  would  live  forever, 
and  the  heir  never  come  to  his  inheritance,  and  so  he 


364  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

would  at  once  hate  his  own  father,  from  the  percep 
tion  that  he  would  never  be  out  of  his  way,     Then  the 
same  class  of  powerful  minds  would  always  rule  the 
state,  and  there  would  never  be  a  change  of  policy, 
\Here  several  pages  are  missing.  —  ED.] 

Through  such  scenes  Septimius  sought  out  the  direc 
tion  that  Doctor  Portsoaken  had  given  him,  and  came 
to  the  door  of  a  house  in  the  olden  part  of  the  town, 
The  Boston  of  those  days  had  very  much  the  aspect  of 
provincial  towns  in  England,  such  as  may  still  be  seen 
there,  while  our  own  city  has  undergone  such  wonder 
ful  changes  that  little  likeness  to  what  our  ancestors 
made  it  can  now  be  found.  The  streets,  crooked  and 
narrow ;  the  houses,  many  gabled,  projecting,  with  lat 
ticed  windows  and  diamond  panes  ;  without  sidewalks ; 
with  rough  pavements. 

Septimius  knocked  loudly  at  the  door,  nor  had  long 
to  wait  before  a  serving-maid  appeared,  who  seemed 
to  be  of  English  nativity ;  and  in  reply  to  his  request 
for  Doctor  Portsoaken  bade  him  come  in,  and  led  him 
up  a  staircase  with  broad  landing-places ;  then  tapped 
at  the  door  of  a  room,  and  was  responded  to  by  a 
gruff  voice  saying,  "  Come  in  !  "  The  woman  held  the 
door  open,  and  Septimius  saw  the  veritable  Doctor 
Portsoaken  in  an  old,  faded  morning-gown,  and  with  a 
nightcap  on  his  head,  his  German  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  a  brandy-bottle,  to  the  best  of  our  belief,  on  the 
table  by  his  side. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  said  the  gruff  doctor,  nodding 
to  Septimius.  "  I  remember  you.  Come  in,  man,  and 
tell  me  your  business." 

Septimius  did  come  in,  but  was  so  struck  by  the 
aspect  of  Dr  Portsoaken' s  apartment,  and  his  gown, 


SEP  773/7  (75   FELT  ON.  365 

that  he  did  not  immediately  tell  his  business.  In  the 
first  place,  everything  looked  very  dusty  and  dirty,  so 
that  evidently  no  woman  had  ever  been  admitted  into 
this  sanctity  of  a  place ;  a  fact  made  all  the  more  evi 
dent  by  the  abundance  of  spiders,  who  had  spun  their 
webs  about  the  walls  and  ceiling  in  the  wildest  appar 
ent  confusion,  though  doubtless  each  individual  spider 
knew  the  cordage  which  he  had  lengthened  out  of  his 
own  miraculous  bowels.  But  it  was  really  strange. 
They  had  festooned  their  cordage  on  whatever  was 
stationary  in  the  room,  making  a  sort  of  gray,  dusky 
tapestry,  that  waved  portentously  in  the  breeze,  and 
flapped,  heavy  and  dismal,  each  with  its  spider  in  the 
centre  of  his  own  system.  And  what  was  most  mar 
vellous  was  a  spider  over  the  doctor's  head ;  a  spider, 
I  think,  of  some  South  American  breed,  with  a  cir 
cumference  of  its  many  legs  as  big,  unless  I  am  misin 
formed,  as  a  teacup,  and  with  a  body  in  the  midst  as 
large  as  a  dollar ;  giving  the  spectator  horrible  qualms 
as  to  what  would  be  the  consequence  if  this  spider 
should  be  crushed,  and,  at  the  same  time,  suggesting 
the  poisonous  danger  of  suffering  such  a  monster  to 
live.  The  monster,  however,  sat  in  the  midst  of  the 
stalwart  cordage  of  his  web,  right  over  the  doctor's 
head  ;  and  he  looked,  with  all  those  complicated  lines, 
like  the  symbol  of  a  conjurer  or  crafty  politician  in 
the  midst  of  the  complexity  of  his  scheme  ;  and  Sep- 
timius  wondered  if  he  were  not  the  type  of  Dr.  Port- 
soaken  himself,  who,  fat  and  bloated  as  the  spider, 
seemed  to  be  the  centre  of  some  dark  contrivance. 
.And  could  it  be  that  poor  Septimins  was  typified  by 
the  fascinated  fly,  doomed  to  be  entangled  by  the  web? 
"  Good  day  to  you,"  said  the  gruff  doctor,  taking 
his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "  Here  I  am,  with  my 


366  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

brother  spiders,  in  the  midst  of  my  web.  I  told  you, 
you  remember,  the  wonderful  efficacy  which  I  had  dis 
covered  in  spiders'  webs ;  and  this  is  my  laboratory, 
where  I  have  hundreds  of  workmen  concocting  my 
panacea  for  me.  Is  it  not  a  lovely  sight  ?  " 

"A  wonderful  one,  at  least,"  said  Septimius.  "That 
one  above  your  head,  the  monster,  is  calculated  to  give 
a  very  favorable  idea  of  your  theory.  What  a  quan 
tity  of  poison  there  must  be  in  him  !  " 

"  Poison,  do  you  call  it  ?  "  quoth  the  grim  doctor. 
"  That 's  entirely  as  it  may  be  used.  Doubtless  his 
bite  would  send  a  man  to  kingdom  come  ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  no  one  need  want  a  better  life-line  than 
that  fellow's  web.  He  and  I  are  firm  friends,  and  I 
believe  he  would  know  my  enemies  by  instinct.  But 
come,  sit  clown,  and  take  a  glass  of  brandy.  No? 
Well,  I  '11  drink  it  for  you.  And  how  is  the  old  aunt 
yonder,  with  her  infernal  nostrum,  the  bitterness  and 
naiiseousness  of  which  my  poor  stomach  has  not  yet 
forgotten  ?  " 

"  My  Aunt  Keziah  is  no  more,"  said  Septimius. 

"  No  more !  Well,  I  trust  in  Heaven  she  has  car 
ried  her  secret  with  her,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If  any 
thing  could  comfort  you  for  her  loss,  it  would  be  that. 
But  what  brings  you  to  Boston  ?  " 

"  Only  a  dried  flower  or  two,"  said  Septimius,  pro 
ducing  some  specimens  of  the  strange  growth  of  the 
grave.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  them." 

The  naturalist  took  the  flowers  in  his  hand,  one  of 
which  had  the  root  appended,  and  examined  them  with 
great  minuteness  and  some  surprise ;  two  or  thrse 
times  looking  in  Septimius's  face  with  a  puzzled  and 
inquiring  air  ;  then  examined  them  again. 

"  Do  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  "  that  the  plant  has  been 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  367 

found  indigenous  in  this  country,  and  in  your  part  of 
it  ?     And  in  what  locality  ?  '' 

u  Indigenous,  so  far  as  I  know,"  answered  Septim- 
ius.  "  As  to  the  locality,"  —  he  hesitated  a  little,  — 
"  it  is  on  a  small  hillock,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  mole 
hill,  on  the  hill-top  behind  my  house." 

The  naturalist  looked  steadfastly  at  him  with  red, 
burning  eyes,  under  his  deep,  impending,  shaggy 
brows  ;  then  again  at  the  flower. 

"  Flower,  do  you  call  it  ?  "  said  he,  after  a  reexam- 
ination.  "  This  is  no  flower,  though  it  so  closely  re 
sembles  one,  and  a  beautiful  one,  —  yes,  most  beauti 
ful.  But  it  is  no  flower.  It  is  a  certain  very  rare 
fungus,  —  so  rare  as  almost  to  be  thought  fabulous  ; 
and  there  are  the  strangest  superstitions,  coming  down 
from  ancient  times,  as  to  the  mode  of  production. 
What  sort  of  manure  had  been  put  into  that  hillock  ? 
AVas  it  merely  dried  leaves,  the  refuse  of  the  forest,  or 
something  else  ?  " 

Septimius  hesitated  a  little ;  but  there  was  no  rea 
son  why  he  should  not  disclose  the  truth,  —  as  much 
of  it  as  Doctor  Portsoaken  cared  to  know. 

"  The  hillock  where  it  grew,"  answered  he,  "  was  a 
grave." 

"  A  grave  !  Strange  !  strange  !  "  quoth  Doctor 
Portsoaken.  "  Xow  these  old  superstitions  sometimes 
prove  to  have  a  germ  of  truth  in  them,  which  some 
philosopher  has  doubtless  long  ago,  in  forgotten  ages, 
discovered  and  made  known ;  but  in  process  of  time 
his  learned  memory  passes  away,  but  the  truth,  undis 
covered,  survives  him,  and  the  people  get  hold  of  it, 
and  make  it  the  nucleus  of  all  sorts  of  folly.  So  it 
grew  out  of  a  grave  !  Yes,  yes  ;  and  probably  it 
would  have  grown  out  of  any  other  dead  flesh,  as  well 


368  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

as  that  of  a  human  being ;  a  dog  would  have  answered 
the  purpose  as  well  as  a  man.  You  must  know  that 
the  seeds  of  fungi  are  scattered  so  universally  over  the 
world  that,  only  comply  with  the  conditions,  and  you 
will  produce  them  everywhere.  Prepare  the  bed  it 
loves,  and  a  mushroom  will  spring  up  spontaneously, 
an  excellent  food,  like  manna  from  heaven.  So  su 
perstition  says,  kill  your  deadliest  enemy,  and  plant 
him,  and  he  will  come  up  in  a  delicious  fungus,  which 
I  presume  to  be  this  ;  steep  him,  or  distil  him,  and  he 
will  make  an  elixir  of  life  for  you.  I  suppose  there  is 
some  foolish  symbolism  or  other  about  the  matter  ;  but 
the  fact  I  affirm  to  be  nonsense.  Dead  flesh  under 
some  certain  conditions  of  rain  and  sunshine,  not  at 
present  ascertained  by  science,  will  produce  the  fun 
gus,  whether  the  manure  be  friend,  or  foe,  or  cattle." 

"And  as  to  its  medical  efficacy?"  asked  Septimius. 

"  That  may  be  great  for  aught  I  know,"  said  Port- 
soaken  ;  "  but  I  am  content  with  my  cobwebs.  You 
may  seek  it  out  for  yourself.  But  if  the  poor  fellow 
lost  his  life  in  the  supposition  that  he  might  be  a  use 
ful  ingredient  in  a  recipe,  you  are  rather  an  unscrupu 
lous  practitioner." 

"  The  person  whose  mortal  relics  fill  that  grave," 
said  Septimius,  "  was  no  enemy  of  mine  (no  private 
enemy,  I  mean,  though  he  stood  among  the  enemies  of 
my  country),  nor  had  I  anything  to  gain  by  his  death. 
I  strove  to  avoid  aiming  at  his  life,  but  he  compelled 
me." 

"  Many  a  chance  shot  brings  down  the  bird,"  said 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  You  say  you  had  no  interest  in 
his  death.  We  shall  see  that  in  the  end." 

Septimius  did  not  try  to  follow  the  conversation 
among  the  mysterious  hints  with  which  the  doctor 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  369 

chose  to  involve  it ;  but  he  now  sought  to  gain  some 
information  from  him  as  to  the  mode  of  preparing  the 
recipe,  and  whether  he  thought  it  would  be  most  effica 
cious  as  a  decoction,  or  as  a  distillation.  The  learned 
chemist  supported  most  decidedly  the  latter  opinion, 
and  showed  Septiinius  how  he  might  make  for  himself 
a  simpler  apparatus,  with  no  better  aids  than  Aunt 
Keziah's  teakettle,  and  one  or  two  trifling  things, 
which  the  doctor  himself  supplied,  by  which  all  might 
be  done  with  every  necessary  scrupulousness. 

'•  Let  me  look  again  at  the  formula,"  said  he. 
"  There  are  a  good  many  minute  directions  that  ap 
pear  trifling,  but  it  is  not  safe  to  neglect  any  minutiaj 
in  the  preparation  of  an  affair  like  this ;  because,  as  it 
is  all  mysterious  and  unknown  ground  together,  we 
cannot  tell  which  may  be  the  important  and  efficacious 
part.  For  instance,  when  all  else  is  done,  the  recipe 
is  to  be  exposed  seven  days  to  the  sun  at  noon.  That 
does  not  look  very  important,  but  it  may  be.  Then 
again,  4  Steep  it  in  moonlight  during  the  second  quar 
ter.'  That  's  all  moonshine,  one  would  think  ;  but 
there  's  no  saying.  It  is  singular,  with  such  precise- 
ness,  that  no  distinct  directions  are  given  whether  to 
infuse,  decoct,  distil,  or  what  other  way  ;  but  my  ad 
vice  is  to  distil." 

'•  I  will  do  it,"  said  Septiinius,  "  and  not  a  direction 
shall  be  neglected." 

"  I  shall  be  curious  to  know  the  result,"  said  Doctor 
Portsoaken.  "  and  am  glad  to  see  the  zeal  with  which 
you  enter  into  the  matter.  A  very  valuable  medicine 
may  be  recovered  to  science  through  your  agency,  and 
you  may  make  your  fortune  by  it ;  though,  for  my 
part,  1  prefer  to  trust  to  my  cobwebs.  This  spider, 

VOL*  xi.  24 


870  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

now,  Is  not  he  a  lovely  object  ?     See,  lie  is  quite  capa 
ble  of  knowledge  and  affection." 

There  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be  some  mode  of  communi 
cation  between  the  doctor  and  his  spider,  for  on  some 
sign  given  by  the  former,  imperceptible  to  Septimius, 
the  many-legged  monster  let  himself  down  by  a  cord, 
which  he  extemporized  out  of  his  own  bowels,  and 
came  dangling  his  huge  bulk  down  before  his  master's 
face,  while  the  latter  lavished  many  epithets  of  endear 
ment  upon  him,  ludicrous,  and  not  without  horror,  as 
applied  to  such  a  hideous  production  of  nature. 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Dr.  Portsoaken,  "  I  run  some 
risk  from  my  intimacy  with  this  lovely  jewel,  and  if  I 
behave  not  all  the  more  prudently,  your  countrymen 
will  hang  me  for  a  wizard,  and  annihilate  this  precious 
spider  as  my  familiar.  There  would  be  a  loss  to  the 
world ;  not  small  in  my  own  case,  but  enormous  in  the 
case  of  the  spider.  Look  at  him  now,  and  see  if  the 
mere  un instructed  observation  does  not  discover  a  won 
derful  value  in  him." 

In  truth,  when  looked  at  closely,  the  spider  really 
showed  that  a  care  and  art  had  been  bestowed  upon 
his  make,  not  merely  as  regards  curiosity,  but  absolute 
beauty,  that  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  must  be  a 
rather  distinguished  creature  in  the  view  of  Provi 
dence  ;  so  variegated  was  he  with  a  thousand  minute 
spots,  spots  of  color,  glorious  radiance,  and  such  a 
brilliance  was  attained  by  many  conglomerated  brill 
iancies  ;  and  it  was  very  strange  that  all  this  care  was 
bestowed  on  a  creature  that,  probably,  had  never  been 
carefully  considered  except  by  the  two  pair  of  eyes 
that  were  now  upon  it ;  and  that,  in  spite  of  its  beauty 
and  magnificence,  could  only  be  looked  at  with  an  ef 
fort  to  overcome  the  mysterious  repulsiveness  of  ,t  its 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  371 

presence  ;  for  all  the  time  that  Septimius  looked  and 
admired,  he  still  hated  the  thing,  and  thought  it 
wrong  that  it  was  ever  born,  and  wished  that  it  could 
be  annihilated.  Whether  the  spider  was  conscious  of 
the  wish,  we  are  unable  to  say  ;  but  certainly  Septim 
ius  felt  as  if  he  were  hostile  to  him,  and  had  a  mind 
to  sting  him  ;  and,  in  fact,  Dr.  Portsoaken  seemed  of 
the  same  opinion. 

"  Aha,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  would  advise  you 
not  to  come  too  near  Orontes !  He  is  a  lovely  beast, 
it  is  true;  but  in  a  certain  recess  of  this  splendid 
form  of  his  he  keeps  a  modest  supply  of  a  certain  po 
tent  and  piercing  poison,  which  would  produce  a  won 
derful  effect  on  any  flesh  to  which  he  chose  to  apply 
it.  A  powerful  fellow  is  Orontes  ;  and  he  has  a  great 
sense  of  his  own  dignity  and  importance,  and  will  not 
allow  it  to  be  imposed  on." 

Septimius  moved  from  the  vicinity  of  the  spider, 
who,  in  fact,  retreated,  by  climbing  up  his  cord,  and 
ensconced  himself  in  the  middle  of  his  web,  where  he 
remained  waiting  for  his  prey.  Septimius  wondered 
whether  the  doctor  were  symbolized  by  the  spider,  and 
was  likewise  waiting  in  the  middle  of  his  web  for  his 
prey.  As  he  saw  no  way,  however,  in  which  the  doc 
tor  could  make  a  profit  out  of  himself,  or  how  he  could 
be  victimized,  the  thought  did  not  much  disturb  his 
equanimity.  He  was  about  to  take  his  leave,  but  the 
doctor,  in  a  derisive  kind  of  way,  bade  him  sit  still, 
for  he  purposed  keeping  him  as  a  guest,  that  night,  at 
least. 

44 1  owe  you  a  dinner,"  said  he,  "  and  will  pay  it 
with  a  supper  and  knowledge ;  and  before  we  part  I 
have  certain  inquiries  to  make,  of  which  you  may  not 
at  first  see  the  object,  but  yet  are  not  quite  purpose* 


372  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

less.  My  familiar,  up  aloft  there,  has  whispered  me 
something  about  you,  and  I  rely  greatly  on  his  intima 
tions." 

Septimius,  who  was  sufficiently  common-sensible, 
and  invulnerable  to  superstitious  influences  on  every 
point  except  that  to  which  he  had  surrendered  himself, 
was  easily  prevailed  upon  to  stay ;  for  he  found  the 
singular,  charlatanic,  mysterious  lore  of  the  man  curi 
ous,  and  he  had  enough  of  real  science  to  at  least 
make  him  an  object  of  interest  to  one  who  knew  noth 
ing  of  the  matter;  and  Septimius's  acuteness,  too,  was 
piqued  in  trying  to  make  out  what  manner  of  man  he 
really  was,  and  how  much  in  him  was  genuine  science 
and  self -belief ,  and  how  much  quackery  and  pretension 
and  conscious  empiricism.  So  he  stayed,  and  supped 
with  the  doctor  at  a  table  heaped  more  bountifully, 
and  with  rarer  dainties,  than  Septimius  had  ever  be 
fore  conceived  of ;  and  in  his  simpler  cognizance,  here 
tofore,  of  eating  merely  to  live,  he  could  not  but  won 
der  to  see  a  man  of  thought  caring  to  eat  of  more  than 
one  dish,  so  that  most  of  the  meal,  on  his  part,  was 
spent  in  seeing  the  doctor  feed  and  hearing  him  dis 
course  upon  his  food. 

"  If  man  lived  only  to  eat,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "one 
life  would  not  suffice,  not  merely  to  exhaust  the  pleas 
ure  of  it,  but  even  to  get  the  rudiments  of  it." 

When  this  important  business  was  over,  the  doctor 
and  his  guest  sat  down  again  in  his  laboratory,  where 
the  former  took  care  to  have  his  usual  companion,  the 
black  bottle,  at  his  elbow,  and  filled  his  pipe,  and 
seemed  to  feel  a  certain  sullen,  genial,  fierce,  brutal, 
kindly  mood  enough,  and  looked  at  Septimius  with  a 
sort  of  friendship,  as  if  he  had  as  lief  shake  hands 
with  him  as  knock  him  down. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  373 

"  Now  for  a  talk  about  business,"  said  he. 

Septimius  thought,  however,  that  the  doctor's  talk 
began,  at  least,  at  a  sufficient  remoteness  from  any 
practical  business  ;  for  he  began  to  question  about  his 
remote  ancestry,  what  he  knew,  or  what  record  had 
been  preserved,  of  the  first  emigrant  from  England ; 
whence,  from  what  shire  or  part  of  England,  that  an 
cestor  had  come  ;  whether  there  were  any  memorial  of 
any  kind  remaining  of  him,  any  letters  or  written  doc 
uments,  wills,  deeds,  or  other  legal  paper ;  in  short,  all 
about  him. 

Septimius  could  not  satisfactorily  see  whether  these 
inquiries  were  made  with  any  definite  purpose,  or  from 
a  mere  general  curiosity  to  discover  how  a  family  of 
early  settlement  in  America  might  still  be  linked  with 
the  old  country ;  whether  there  were  any  tendrils 
stretching  across  the  gulf  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  by  which  the  American  branch  of  the  family 
was  separated  from  the  trunk  of  the  family  tree  in 
England.  The  doctor  partly  explained  this. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  he,  "  that  the  name  you 
bear,  Felton,  is  one  formerly  of  much  eminence  and 
repute  in  my  part  of  England,  and,  indeed,  very  re 
cently  possessed  of  wealth  and  station.  I  should  like 
to  know  if  you  are  of  that  race.*' 

Septimius  answered  with  such  facts  and  traditions 
as  had  come  to  his  knowledge  respecting  his  family 
history  ;  a  sort  of  history  that  is  quite  as  liable  to  be 
mythical,  in  its  early  and  distant  stages,  as  that  of 
Rome,  and,  indeed,  seldom  goes  three  or  four  genera 
tions  back  without  getting  into  a  mist  really  impene 
trable,  though  great,  gloomy,  and  magnificent  shapes 
of  men  often  seem  to  loom  in  it,  who,  if  they  could  be 
brought  close  to  the  naked  eye,  would  turn  out  as  com 


374  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

monplace  as  the  descendants  who  wonder  at  and  ad 
mire  them.  He  remembered  Aunt  Keziah's  legend, 
and  said  he  had  reason  to  believe  that  his  first  ances 
tor  came  over  at  a  somewhat  earlier  date  than  the 
first  Puritan  settlers,  and  dwelt  among  the  Indians, 
where  (and  here  the  young  man  cast  down  his  eyes, 
having  the  customary  American  abhorrence  for  any 
mixture  of  blood)  he  had  intermarried  with  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  sagamore,  and  succeeded  to  his  rule.  This 
might  have  happened  as  early  as  the  end  of  Elizabeth's 
reign,  perhaps  later.  It  was  impossible  to  decide  dates 
on  such  a  matter.  There  had  been  a  son  of  this  con 
nection,  perhaps  more  than  one,  but  certainly  one  son, 
who,  on  the  arrival  of  the  Puritans,  was  a  youth,  his 
father  appearing  to  have  been  slain  in  some  outbreak 
of  the  tribe,  perhaps  owing  to  the  jealousy  of  promi 
nent  chiefs  at  seeing  their  natural  authority  abrogated 
or  absorbed  by  a  man  of  different  race.  He  slightly 
alluded  to  the  supernatural  attributes  that  gathered 
round  this  predecessor,  but  in  a  way  to  imply  that  he 
put  no  faith  in  them ;  for  Septimius's  natural  keen 
sense  and  perception  kept  him  from  betraying  his 
weaknesses  to  the  doctor,  by  the  same  instinctive  and 
subtle  caution  with  which  a  madman  can  so  well  con 
ceal  his  infirmity. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  Puritans,  they  had  found 
among  the  Indians  a  youth  partly  of  their  own  blood, 
able,  though  imperfectly,  to  speak  their  language,  — 
having,  at  least,  some  early  recollections  of  it,  —  in 
heriting,  also,  a  share  of  influence  over  the  tribe  on 
which  his  father  had  grafted  him.  It  was  natural  that 
they  should  pay  especial  attention  to  this  youth,  con 
sider  it  their  duty  to  give  him  religious  instruction  in 
the  faith  of  his  fathers,  and  try  to  use  him  as  a  means 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  375 

of  influencing  his  tribe.  They  did  so,  but  did  not  suc 
ceed  in  swaying  the  tribe  by  his  means,  their  success 
having  been  limited  to  winning  the  half-Indian  from 
the  wild  ways  of  his  mother's  people,  into  a  certain 
partial,  but  decent  accommodation  to  those  of  the  Eng 
lish.  A  tendency  to  civilization  wras  brought  out  in 
his  character  by  their  rigid  training ;  at  least,  his  sav 
age  wildness  was  broken.  He  built  a  house  among 
them,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  wigwam,  no  doubt,  in  its 
style  of  architecture,  but  still  a  permanent  house,  near 
which  he  established  a  corn  -  field,  a  pumpkin-garden, 
a  melon-patch,  and  became  farmer  enough  to  be  en 
titled  to  ask  the  hand  of  a  Puritan  maiden.  There  he 
spent  his  life,  with  some  few  instances  of  temporary 
relapse  into  savage  wildness,  when  he  fished  in  the 
river  Musquehannah,  or  in  Walden,  or  strayed  in  the 
woods,  when  he  should  have  been  planting  or  hoeing ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  race  had  been  redeemed  from 
barbarism  in  his  person,  and  in  the  succeeding  gener 
ations  had  been  tamed  more  and  more.  The  second 
generation  had  been  distinguished  in  the  Indian  wars 
of  the  provinces,  and  then  intermarried  with  the  stock 
of  a  distinguished  Puritan  divine,  by  which  means 
Septimius  could  reckon  great  and  learned  men,  schol 
ars  of  old  Cambridge,  among  his  ancestry  on  one  side, 
while  on  the  other  it  ran  up  to  the  early  emigrants, 
who  seemed  to  have  been  remarkable  men,  and  to  that 
strange  wild  lineage  of  Indian  chiefs,  wrhose  blood  was 
like  that  of  persons  not  qmte  human,  intermixed  with 
civilized  blood. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  doctor,  musingly,  "  whether 
there  are  really  no  documents  to  ascertain  the  epoch 
at  which  that  old  first  emigrant  came  over,  and  whence 
he  came,  and  precisely  from  what  English  family. 


376  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

Often  the  last  heir  of  some  respectable  name  dies  in 
England,  and  we  say  that  the  family  is  extinct ; 
whereas,  very  possibly,  it  may  be  abundantly  flourish 
ing  in  the  New  World,  revived  by  the  rich  infusion  of 
new  blood  in  a  new  soil,  instead  of  growing  feebler, 
heavier,  stupider,  each  year  by  sticking  to  an  old  soil, 
intermarrying  over  and  over  again  with  the  same  re 
spectable  families,  till  it  has  made  common  stock  of  all 
their  vices,  weaknesses,  madnesses.  Have  you  no  doc 
uments,  I  say,  no  muniment  deed  ?  " 

"None,"  said  Septimius. 

"No  old  furniture,  desks,  trunks,  chests,  cabinets?" 

"You  must  remember,"  said  Septimius,  "that  my 
Indian  ancestor  was  not  very  likely  to  have  brought 
such  things  out  of  the  forest  with  him.  A  wandering 
Indian  does  not  carry  a  chest  of  papers  with  him.  I 
do  remember,  in  my  childhood,  a  little  old  iron-bound 
chest,  or  coffer,  of  which  the  key  was  lost,  and  which 
my  Aunt  Keziah  used  to  say  came  down  from  her  great- 
great-grandfather.  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of 
it,  and  my  poor  old  aunt  kept  it  among  her  own  treas 
ures." 

"  Well,  my  friend,  do  you  hunt  up  that  old  coffer, 
and,  just  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  let  me  see  the  con 
tents." 

"  I  have  other  things  to  do,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "  but  no  other,  as 
it  may  turn  out,  of  quite  so  much  importance  as  this. 
I  '11  tell  you  fairly  :  the  heir  of  a  great  English  house 
is  lately  dead,  and  the  estate  lies  open  to  any  well- 
sustained,  perhaps  to  any  plausible,  claimant.  If  it 
should  appear  from  the  records  of  that  family,  as  I 
have  some  reason  to  suppose,  that  a  member  of  it, 
who  would  now  represent  the  older  branch,  disap 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  377 

peared  mysteriously  and  unaccountably,  at  a  date  cor 
responding  with  what  might  be  ascertained  as  that  of 
your  ancestor's  first  appearance  in  this  country ;  if 
any  reasonable  proof  can  be  brought  forward,  on  the 
part  of  the  representatives  of  that  white  sagamore,  that 
wizard  pow-wow,  or  however  you  call  him,  that  he  was 
the  disappearing  Englishman,  why,  a  good  case  is  made 
out.  Do  you  feel  no  interest  in  such  a  prospect  ?  " 

"  Very  little,  I  confess,"  said  Septiinius. 

"  Very  little  !  "  said  the  grim  doctor,  impatiently. 
"  Do  not  you  see  that,  if  you  make  good  your  claim, 
you  establish  for  yourself  a  position  among  the  Eng 
lish  aristocracy,  and  succeed  to  a  noble  English  es 
tate,  an  ancient  hall,  where  your  forefathers  have 
dwelt  since  the  Conqueror  ;  splendid  gardens,  heredi 
tary  woods  and  parks,  to  which  anything  America  can 
show  is  despicable,  —  all  thoroughly  cultivated  and 
adorned,  with  the  care  and  ingenuity  of  centuries ; 
and  an  income,  a  month  of  which  would  be  greater 
wealth  than  any  of  your  American  ancestors,  raking 
and  scraping  for  his  lifetime,  has  ever  got  together, 
as  the  accumulated  result  of  the  toil  and  penury  by 
which  he  has  sacrificed  body  and  soul  ?  " 

"That  strain  of  Indian  blood  is  in  me  yet,"  said 
Septiinius,  "  and  it  makes  me  despise,  —  no,  not  de 
spise  ;  for  I  can  see  their  desirableness  for  other  peo 
ple,  —  but  it  makes  me  reject  for  myself  what  you  think 
so  valuable.  I  do  not  care  for  these  common  aims. 
I  have  ambition,  but  it  is  for  prizes  such  as  other  men 
cannot  gain,  and  do  not  think  of  aspiring  after.  I 
coidd  not  live  in  the  habits  of  English  life,  as  I  con 
ceive  it  to  be,  and  would  not,  for  my  part,  be  burdened 
with  the  great  estate  you  speak  of.  It  might  answer 
my  purpose  for  a  time.  It  would  suit  me  well  enough 


378  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

to  try  that  mode  of  life,  as  well  as  a  hundred  others, 
but  only  for  a  time.  It  is  of  no  permanent  impor 
tance." 

."I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  young  man,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  testily,  "you  have  something  in  your  brain  that 
makes  you  talk  very  foolishly ;  and  I  have  partly  a 
suspicion  what  it  is,  —  only  I  can't  think  that  a  fellow 
who  is  really  gifted  with  respectable  sense,  in  other 
directions,  should  be  such  a  confounded  idiot  in  this.'' 

Septimius  blushed,  but  held  his  peace,  and  the  con 
versation  languished  after  this ;  the  doctor  grimly 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  by  no  means  increasing  the 
milkiness  of  his  mood  by  frequent  applications  to  the 
black  bottle,  until  Septimius  intimated  that  he  would 
like  to  go  to  bed.  The  old  woman  was  summoned, 
and  ushered  him  to  his  chamber. 

At  breakfast,  the  doctor  partially  renewed  the  sub 
ject  which  he  seemed  to  consider  most  important  in 
yesterday's  conversation. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  advise  you  to  look 
in  cellar  and  garret,  or  wherever  you  consider  the 
most  likely  place,  for  that  iron-bound  coffer.  There 
may  be  nothing  in  it ;  it  may  be  full  of  musty  love- 
letters,  or  old  sermons,  or  receipted  bills  of  a  hundred 
years  ago ;  but  it  may  contain  what  will  be  worth  to 
you  an  estate  of  five  thousand  pounds  a  year.  It  is  a 
pity  the  old  woman  with  the  damnable  decoction  is 
gone  off.  Look  it  up,  I  say." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Septimius,  abstractedly,  "  when 
I  can  find  time." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  leave,  and  retraced  his  way 
back  to  his  home.  He  had  not  seemed  like  himself 
during  the  time  that  elapsed  since  he  left  it,  and  it 
appeared  an  infinite  space  that  he  had  lived  through 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  379 

and  travelled  over,  and  he  fancied  it  hardly  possible 
that  he  could  ever  get  back  again.  But  now,  with 
every  step  that  he  took,  he  found  himself  getting  mis 
erably  back  into  the  old  enchanted  land.  The  mist 
rose  up  about  him,  the  pale  mist-bow  of  ghostly  prom 
ise  curved  before  him ;  and  he  trod  back  again,  poor 
boy,  out  of  the  clime  of  real  effort,  into  the  land  of 
his  dreams  and  shadowy  enterprise. 

"  How  was  it,"  said  he,  "  that  I  can  have  been  so 
untrue  to  my  convictions  ?  Whence  came  that  dark 
and  dull  despair  that  weighed  upon  me  ?  Why  did  I 
let  the  mocking  mood  which  I  was  conscious  of  in  that 
brutal,  brandy-burnt  sceptic  have  such  an  influence  on 
me  ?  Let  him  guzzle  !  He  shall  not  tempt  me  from 
my  pursuit,  with  his  lure  of  an  estate  and  name 
among  those  heavy  English  beef-eaters  of  whom  he  is 
a  brother.  My  destiny  is  one  which  kings  might 
envy,  and  strive  in  vain  to  buy  with  principalities  and 
kingdoms." 

So  he  trod  on  air  almost,  in  the  latter  parts  of  his 
journey,  and  instead  of  being  wearied,  grew  more  airy 
with  the  latter  miles  that  brought  him  to  his  wayside 
home. 

So  now  Septimius  sat  down  and  began  in  earnest 
his  endeavors  and  experiments  to  prepare  the  medi 
cine,  according  to  the  mysterious  terms  of  the  recipe. 
It  seemed  not  possible  to  do  it,  so  many  rebuffs  and 
disappointments  did  he  meet  with.  No  effort  would 
produce  a  combination  answering  to  the  description  of 
the  recipe,  which  propounded  a  brilliant,  gold-colored 
liquid,  clear  as  the  air  itself,  with  a  certain  fragrance 
which  was  peculiar  to  it,  and  also,  what  was  the  more 
individual  test  of  the  correctness  of  the  mixture,  a 
certain  coldness  of  the  feeling,  a  chillness  which  was 


380  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

described  as  peculiarly  refreshing  and  invigorating. 
With  all  his  trials,  he  produced  nothing  but  turbid 
results,  clouded  generally,  or  lacking  something  in 
color,  and  never  that  fragrance,  and  never  that  cold 
ness  which  was  to  be  the  test  of  truth.  He  studied 
all  the  books  of  chemistry  which  at  that  period  were 
attainable,  —  a  period  when,  in  the  world,  it  was  a 
science  far  unlike  what  it  has  since  become ;  and  when 
Septimius  had  no  instruction  in  this  country,  nor  could 
obtain  any  beyond  the  dark,  mysterious  charlatanic 
communications  of  Doctor  Portsoaken.  So  that,  in 
fact,  he  seemed  to  be  discovering  for  himself  the  sci 
ence  through  which  he  was  to  work.  He  seemed  to 
do  everything  that  was  stated  in  the  recipe,  and  yet 
no  results  came  from  it ;  the  liquid  that  he  produced 
was  nauseous  to  the  smell, — to  taste  it  he  had  a  horri 
ble  repugnance,  turbid,  nasty,  reminding  him  in  most 
respects  of  poor  Aunt  Keziah's  elixir ;  and  it  was  a 
body  without  a  soul,  and  that  body  dead.  And  so 
it  went  on;  and  the  poor,  half -maddened  Septimius 
began  to  think  that  nis  immortal  life  was  preserved 
by  the  mere  effort  of  seeking  for  it,  but  was  to  be 
spent  in  the  quest,  and  was  therefore  to  be  made  an 
eternity  of  abortive  misery.  He  pored  over  the  doc 
ument  that  had  so  possessed  him,  turning  its  crabbed 
"meanings  every  way,  trying  to  get  out  of  it  some  new 
light,  often  tempted  to  fling  it  into  the  fire  which  he 
kept  under  his  retort,  and  let  the  whole  thing  go  ;  but 
then  again,  soon  rising  out  of  that  black  depth  of  de 
spair,  into  a  determination  to  do  what  he  had  so  long 
striven  for.  With  such  intense  action  of  mind  as  he 
brought  to  bear  on  this  paper,  it  is  wonderful  that  it 
was  not  spiritually  distilled ;  that  its  essence  did  not 
arise,  purified  from  all  alloy  of  falsehood,  from  all 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTGN.  381 

turbidness  of  obscurity  and  ambiguity,  and  form  a 
pure  essence  of  truth  and  invigorating  motive,  if  of 
any  it  were  capable.  In  this  interval,  Septimius  is 
said  by  tradition  to  have  found  out  many  wonderful 
secrets  that  were  almost  beyond  the  scope  of  science. 
It  was  said  that  old  Aunt  Keziah  used  to  come  with 
a  coal  of  fire  from  unknown  furnaces,  to  light  his  dis 
tilling  apparatus ;  it  was  said,  too,  that  the  ghost  of 
the  old  lord,  whose  ingenuity  had  propounded  this 
puzzle  for  his  descendants,  used  to  come  at  midnight 
and  strive  to  explain  to  him  this  manuscript ;  that  the 
Black  Man,  too,  met  him  on  the  hill-top,  and  promised 
him  an  immediate  release  from  his  difficulties,  provided 
he  would  kneel  down  and  worship  him,  and  sign  his 
name  in  his  book,  an  old,  iron  -  clasped,  much -worn 
volume,  which  he  produced  from  his  ample  pockets, 
and  showed  him  in  it  the  names  of  many  a  man  whose 
name  has  become  historic,  and  above  whose  ashes  kept 
watch  an  inscription  testifying  to  his  virtues  and  de 
votion,  —  old  autographs,  —  for  the  Black  Man  was 
the  original  autograph  collector. 

But  these,  no  doubt,  were  foolish  stories,  conceived 
and  propagated  in  chimney-corners,  while  yet  there 
were  chimney-corners  and  firesides,  and  smoky  flues. 
There  was  no  truth  in  such  things,  I  am  sure;  the 
Black  Man  had  changed  his  tactics,  and  knew  better 
than  to  lure  the  human  soul  thus  to  come  to  him  with 
his  musty  autograph-book.  So  Septimius  fought  with 
his  difficulty  by  himself,  as  many  a  beginner  in  science 
has  done  before  him  ;  and  to  his  efforts  in  this  way 
are  popularly  attributed  many  herb-drinks,  and  some 
kinds  of  spruce-beer,  and  nostrums  used  for  rheuma 
tism,  sore  throat,  and  typhus  fever  ;  but  I  rather  think 
they  all  came  from  Aunt  Keziah ;  or  perhaps,  liko 


382  SEPTIMIUS   FELTON. 

jokes  to  Joe  Miller,  all  sorts  of  quack  medicines,  flock 
ing  at  large  through  the  community,  are  assigned  to 
him  or  her.  The  people  have  a  little  mistaken  the 
character  and  purpose  of  poor  Septimius,  and  remem 
ber  him  as  a  quack  doctor,  instead  of  a  seeker  for  a 
secret,  not  the  less  sublime  and  elevating  because  it 
happened  to  be  unattainable. 

1  know  not  through  what  medium  or  by  what 
means,  but  it  got  noised  abroad  that  Septimius  was 
engaged  in  some  mysterious  work ;  and,  indeed,  his 
seclusion,  his  absorption,  his  indifference  to  all  that 
was  going  on  in  that  weary  time  of  war,  looked  strange 
enough  to  indicate  that  it  must  be  some  most  impor 
tant  business  that  engrossed  him.  On  the  few  occa 
sions  when  he  came  out  from  his  immediate  haunts  into 
the  village,  he  had  a  strange,  owl-like  appearance,  un 
combed,  unbrushed,  his  hair  long  and  tangled ;  his 
face,  they  said,  darkened  with  smoke  ;  his  cheeks  pale ; 
the  indentation  of  his  brow  deeper  than  ever  before ; 
an  earnest,  haggard,  sulking  look ;  and  so  he  went 
hastily  along  the  village  street,  feeling  as  if  all  eyes 
might  find  out.what  he  had  in  his  mind  from  his  ap 
pearance  ;  taking  by-ways  where  they  were  to  be  found, 
going  long  distances  through  woods  and  fields,  rather 
than  short  ones  where  the  way  lay  through  the  fre 
quented  haunts  of  men.  For  he  shunned  the  glances 
of  his  fellow-men,  probably  because  he  had  learnt  to 
consider  them  not  as  fellows,  because  he  was  seeking 
to  withdraw  himself  from  the  common  bond  and  des 
tiny,  —  because  he  felt,  too,  that  on  that  account  his 
fellow-men  would  consider  him  as  a  traitor,  an  enemy, 
one  who  had  deserted  their  cause,  and  tried  to  with 
draw  his  feeble  shoulder  from  under  that  great  bur 
den  of  death  which  is  imposed  on  all  men  to  bear, 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  383 

and  which,  if  one  could  escape,  each  other  would  feel 
his  load  proportionally  heavier.  With  these  beings 
of  a  moment  he  had  no  longer  any  common  cause  ; 
they  must  go  their  separate  ways,  yet  apparently  the 
same,  —  they  on  the  broad,  dusty,  beaten  path,  that 
seemed  always  full,  but  from  which  continually  they 
so  strangely  vanished  into  invisibility,  no  one  know 
ing,  nor  long  inquiring,  what  had  become  of  them  ;  he 
on  his  lonely  path,  where  he  should  tread  secure,  with 
no  trouble  but  the  loneliness,  which  would  be  none  to 
him.  For  a  little  while  he  would  seem  to  keep  them 
company,  but  soon  they  would  all  drop  away,  the  min 
ister,  his  accustomed  towns  -  people,  Robert  Hagburn, 
Rose,  Sibyl  Dacy,  —  all  leaving  him  in  blessed  un- 
knownness  to  adopt  new  temporary  relations,  and  take 
a  new  course. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  prospect  a  little  chilled 
him.  Could  he  give  them  all  up,  —  the  sweet  sister ; 
the  friend  of  his  childhood  ;  the  grave  instructor  of 
his  youth  ;  the  homely,  life-known  faces  ?  Yes  ;  there 
were  such  rich  possibilities  in  the  future  :  for  he  would 
seek  out  the  noblest  minds,  the  deepest  hearts  in  every 
age,  and  be  the  friend  of  human  time.  Only  it  might 
be  sweet  to  have  one  unchangeable  companion ;  for, 
unless  he  strung  the  pearls  and  diamonds  of  life  upon 
one  unbroken  affection,  he  sometimes  thought  that  his 
life  would  have  nothing  to  give  it  unity  and  identity  ; 
and  so  the  longest  life  would  be  but  an  aggregate  of 
insulated  fragments,  which  would  have  no  relation  to 
one  another.  And  so  it  would  not  be  one  life,  but 
many  unconnected  ones.  Unless  he  could  look  into 
the  same  eyes,  through  the  mornings  of  future  time, 
opening  and  blessing  him  with  the  fresh  gleam  of  love 
and  joy ;  unless  the  same  sweet  voice  could  melt  his 


384  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

thoughts  together ;  unless  some  sympathy  of  a  life 
side  by  side  with  his  could  knit  them  into  one  ;  look 
ing  back  upon  the  same  things,  looking  forward  to 
the  same  ;  the  long,  thin  thread  of  an  individual  life, 
stretching  onward  and  onward,  would  cease  to  be  visi 
ble,  cease  to  be  felt,  cease,  by  and  by,  to  have  any  real 
bigness  in  proportion  to  its  length,  and  so  be  virtually 
non-existent,  except  in  the  mere  inconsiderable  Now. 
If  a  group  of  chosen  friends,  chosen  out  of  all  the 
world  for  their  adaptedness,  could  go  on  in  endless  life 
together,  keeping  themselves  mutually  warm  on  the 
high,  desolate  way,  then  none  of  them  need  ever  sigh 
to  be  comforted  in  the  pitiable  snugness  of  the  grave. 
If  one  especial  soul  might  be  his  companion,  then  how 
complete  the  fence  of  mutual  arms,  the  warmth  of 
close-pressing  breast  to  breast !  Might  there  be  one  ! 
O  Sibyl  Dacy ! 

Perhaps  it  could  not  be.  Who  but  himself  could 
undergo  that  great  trial,  and  hardship,  and  self-denial, 
and  firm  purpose,  never  wavering,  never  sinking  for  a 
moment,  keeping  his  grasp  on  life  like  one  who  holds 
up  by  main  force  a  sinking  and  drowning  friend  ?  — • 
how  could  a  woman  do  it !  He  must  then  give  up  the 
thought.  There  was  a  choice,  —  friendship,  and  the 
love  of  woman,  — -the  long  life  of  immortality.  There 
was  something  heroic  and  ennobling  in  choosing  the 
latter.  And  so  he  walked  with  the  mysterious  girl  on 
the  hill-top,  and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  grave, 
which  still  ceased  not  to  redden,  portentously  beauti 
ful,  with  that  unnatural  flower,  —  and  they  talked  to 
gether  ;  and  Septimius  looked  on  her  weird  beauty, 
and  often  said  to  himself,  "  This,  too,  will  pass  away ; 
she  is  not  capable  of  what  I  am ;  she  is  a  woman.  It 
must  be  a  manly  and  courageous  and  forcible  spirit, 


4 

SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  385 

vastly  rich  in  all  three  particulars,  that  has  strength 
enough  to  live  !  Ah,  is  it  surely  so  ?  There  is  such 
a  dark  sympathy  between  us,  she  knows  me  so  well, 
she  touches  my  inmost  so  at  unawares,  that  I  could 
almost  think  I  had  a  companion  here.  Perhaps  not 
so  soon.  At  the  end  of  centuries  I  might  wed  one ; 
not  now." 

But  once  he  said  to  Sibyl  Dacy,  "  Ah,  how  sweet  it 
would  be  —  sweet  for  me,  at  least  —  if  this  inter 
course  might  last  forever !  " 

"  That  is  an  awful  idea  that  you  present,"  said 
Sibyl,  with  a  hardly  perceptible,  involuntary  shudder ; 
"  always  on  this  hill-top,  always  passing  and  repassing 
this  little  hillock ;  always  smelling  these  flowers !  I 
always  looking  at  this  deep  chasm  in  your  brow  ;  you 
always  seeing  my  bloodless  cheek !  —  doing  this  till 
these  trees  crumble  away,  till  perhaps  a  new  forest 
grew  up  wherever  this  white  race  had  planted,  and  a 
race  of  savages  again  possess  the  soil.  I  shoidd  not 
like  it.  My  mission  here  is  but  for  a  short  time,  and 
will  soon  be  accomplished,  and  then  I  go." 

"  You  do  not  rightly  estimate  the  way  in  which  the 
long  time  might  be  spent,"  said  Septimius.  "  We 
would  find  out  a  thousand  uses  of  this  world,  uses 
and  enjoyments  which  now  men  never  dream  of,  be 
cause  the  world  is  just  held  to  their  mouths,  and  then 
snatched  away  again,  before  they  have  time  hardly  to 
taste  it,  instead  of  becoming  acquainted  with  the  deli- 
ciousness  of  this  great  world-fruit.  But  you  speak  of 
a  mission,  and  as  if  you  were  now  in  performance  of 
it.  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sibyl  Dacy,  smiling  on  him.  "  But  one 
day  you  shall  know  what  it  is,  —  none  sooner  nor  bet 
ter  than  you,  —  so  much  I  promise  you." 

VOL.   xi.  25 


I 
386  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  Are  we  friends  ? "  asked  Septimius,  somewhat 
puzzled  by  her  look. 

"  We  have  an  intimate  relation  to  one  another,"  re 
plied  Sibyl. 

"  And  what  is  it  ?  "  demanded  Septimius. 

"  That  will  appear  hereafter,"  answered  Sibyl,  again 
smiling  on  him. 

He  knew  not  what  to  make  of  this,  nor  whether  to 
be  exalted  or  depressed ;  but,  at  all  events,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  accordance,  a  striking  together,  a 
mutual  touch  of  their  two  natures,  as  if,  somehow  or 
other,  they  were  performing  the  same  part  of  solemn 
music ;  so  that  he  felt  his  soul  thrill,  and  at  the  same 
time  shudder.  Some  sort  of  sympathy  there  surely 
was,  but  of  what  nature  he  could  not  tell ;  though 
often  he  was  impelled  to  ask  himself  the  same  ques 
tion  he  asked  Sibyl,  "  Are  we  friends  ?  "  because  of  a 
sudden  shock  and  repulsion  that  came  between  them, 
and  passed  away  in  a  moment ;  and  there  would  be 
Sibyl,  smiling  askance  on  him. 

And  then  he  toiled  away  again  at  his  chemical  pur 
suits  ;  tried  to  mingle  things  harmoniously  that  ap 
parently  were  not  born  to  be  mingled ;  discovering  a 
science  for  himself,  and  mixing  it  up  with  absurdities 
that  other  chemists  had  long  ago  flung  aside  ;  but  still 
there  would  be  that  turbid  aspect,  still  that  lack  of 
fragrance,  still  that  want  of  the  peculiar  temperature, 
that  was  announced  as  the  test  of  the  matter.  Over 
and  over  again  he  set  the  crystal  vase  in  the  sun,  and 
let  it  stay  there  the  appointed  time,  hoping  that  it 
would  digest  in  such  a  manner  as  to  bring  about  the 
desired  result. 

One  day,  as  it  happened,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
silver  key  which  he  had  taken  from  the  breast  of  t^he 


SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON.  387 

dead  young  man,  and  he  thought  within  himself  that 
this  might  have  something  to  do  with  the  seemingly 
unattainable  success  of  his  pursuit.  He  remembered, 
for  the  first  time,  the  grim  doctor's  emphatic  injunc 
tion  to  search  for  the  little  iron-bound  box  of  which 
he  had  spoken,  and  which  had  come  down  with  such 
legends  attached  to  it ;  as,  for  instance,  that  it  held 
the  Devil's  bond  with  his  great-great-grandfather,  now 
cancelled  by  the  surrender  of  the  latter's  soul ;  that 
it  held  the  golden  key  of  Paradise ;  that  it  was  full  of 
old  gold,  or  of  the  dry  leaves  of  a  hundred  years  ago ; 
that  it  had  a  familiar  fiend  in  it,  who  would  be  ex 
orcised  by  the  turning  of  the  lock,  but  would  other 
wise  remain  a  prisoner  till  the  solid  oak  of  the  box 
mouldered,  or  the  iron  rusted  away ;  so  that  between 
fear  and  the  loss  of  the  key,  this  curious  old  box  had 
remained  unopened,  till  itself  was  lost. 

But  now  Septimius,  putting  together  what  Aunt  Ive- 
ziah  had  said  in  her  dying  moments,  and  what  Doc 
tor  Portsoaken  had  insisted  upon,  suddenly  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  possession  of  the  old  iron  box 
might  be  of  the  greatest  importance  to  him.  So  he 
set  himself  at  once  to  think  where  he  had  last  seen  it. 
Aunt  Keziah,  of  course,  had  put  it  away  in  some  safe 
place  or  other,  either  in  cellar  or  garret,  no  doubt; 
so  Septimius,  in  the  intervals  of  his  other  occupa 
tions,  devoted  several  days  to  the  search ;  and  not  to 
weaiy  the  reader  with  the  particulars  of  the  quest  for 
an  old  box,  suffice  it  to  say  that  he  at  last  found  it, 
amongst  various  other  antique  rubbish,  in  a  corner  of 
the  garret. 

It  was  a  very  rusty  old  thing,  not  more  than  a  foot 
in  length,  and  half  as  much  in  height  and  breadth  ;  but 
most  ponderously  iron-bound,  with  bars,  and  corners, 


888  SEPT  I  Ml  US  FELT  ON. 

and  all  sorts  of  fortification  ;  looking  very  much  like 
an  ancient  alms-box,  such  as  are  to  be  seen  in  the  older 
rural  churches  of  England,  and  which  seem  to  intimate 
great  distrust  of  those  to  whom  the  funds  are  com 
mitted.  Indeed,  there  might  be  a  shrewd  suspicion 
that  some  ancient  church  beadle  among  Septimius's 
forefathers,  when  emigrating  from  England,  had  taken 
the  opportunity  of  bringing  the  poor-box  along  with 
him.  On  looking  close,  too,  there  were  rude  embellish 
ments  on  the  lid  and  sides  of  the  box  in  long-rusted 
steel,  designs  such  as  the  Middle  Ages  were  rich  in  ; 
a  representation  of  Adam  and  Eve,  or  of  Satan  and  a 
soul,  nobody  could  tell  which;  but,  at  any  rate,  an 
illustration  of  great  value  and  interest.  Septimius 
looked  at  this  ugly,  rusty,  ponderous  old  box,  so  worn 
and  battered  with  time,  and  recollected  with  a  scorn 
ful  smile  the  legends  of  which  it  was  the  object ;  all 
of  which  he  despised  and  discredited,  just  as  much  as 
he  did  that  story  in  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  where  a 
demon  comes  out  of  a  copper  vase,  in  a  cloud  of  smoke 
that  covers  the  sea-shore  ;  for  he  was  singularly  in 
vulnerable  to  all  modes  of  superstition,  all  nonsense, 
except  his  own.  But  that  one  mode  was  ever  in  full 
force  and  operation  with  him.  He  felt  strongly  con 
vinced  that  inside  the  old  box  was  something  that  ap 
pertained  to  his  destiny  ;  the  key  that  he  had  taken 
from  the  dead  man's  breast,  had  that  come  down 
through  time,  and  across  the  sea,  and  had  a  man  died 
to  bring  and  deliver  it  to  him,  merely  for  nothing  ? 
It  could  not  be. 

He  looked  at  the  old,  rusty,  elaborated  lock  of  the 
little  receptacle.  It  was  much  flourished  about  with 
what  was  once  polished  steel  ;  and  certainly,  when 
thus  polished,  and  the  steel  bright  with  which  it  was 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  389 

hooped,  defended,  and  inlaid,  it  must  have  been  a 
thing  fit  to  appear  in  any  cabinet ;  though  now  the 
oak  was  worm-eaten  as  an  old  coffin,  and  the  rust  of 
the  iron  came  off  red  on  Septimius's  fingers,  after  he 
had  been  fumbling  at  it.  He  looked  at  the  curious 
old  silver  key,  too,  and  fancied  that  he  discovered  in 
its  elaborate  handle  some  likeness  to  the  ornaments 
about  the  box ;  at  any  rate,  this  he  determined  was 
the  key  of  fate,  and  he  was  just  applying  it  to  the  lock 
when  somebody  tapped  familiarly  at  the  door,  having 
opened  the  outer  one,  and  stepped  in  with  a  manly 
stride.  Septimius,  inwardly  blaspheming,  as  secluded 
men  are  apt  to  do  when  any  interruption  comes,  and 
especially  when  it  comes  at  some  critical  moment  of 
projection,  left  the  box  as  yet  imbroached,  and  said, 
"  Come  in." 

The  door  opened,  and  Robert  Hagburn  entered; 
lacking  so  tall  and  stately,  that  Septimius  hardly 
knew  him  for  the  youth  with  whom  he  had  grown  up 
familiarly.  He  had  on  the  Revolutionary  dress  of 
buff  and  blue,  with  decorations  that  to  the  initiated 
eye  denoted  him  an  officer,  and  certainly  there  was  a 
kind  of  authority  in  his  look  and  manner,  indicating 
that  heavy  responsibilities,  critical  moments,  had  edu 
cated  him,  and  turned  the  ploughboy  into  a  man. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Septimius.  "  I  scarcely 
knew  you.  How  war  has  altered  you !  " 

"  And  I  may  say,  Is  it  you  ?  for  you  are  much  al 
tered  likewise,  my  old  friend.  Study  wears  upon  you 
terribly.  You  will  be  an  old  man,  at  this  rate,  before 
you  know  you  are  a  young  one.  You  will  kill  your 
self,  as  sure  as  a  gun !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Septimius,  rather  startled, 
for  the  queer  absurdity  of  the  position  struck  him,  if 


390  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

he  should  so  exhaust  and  wear  himself  as  to  die,  just 
at  the  moment  when  he  should  have  found  out  the 
secret  of  everlasting  life.  "  But  though  I  look  pale,  1 
am  very  vigorous.  Judging  from  that  scar,  slanting 
down  from  your  temple,  you  have  been  nearer  death 
than  you  now  think  me,  though  in  another  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  Robert  Hagburn ;  "  but  in  hot  blood, 
and  for  a  good  cause,  who  cares  for  death  ?  And  yet 
I  love  life ;  none  better,  while  it  lasts,  and  I  love  it 
in  all  its  looks  and  turns  and  surprises, — there  is  so 
much  to  be  got  out  of  it,  in  spite  of  all  that  people 
say.  Youth  is  sweet,  with  its  fiery  enterprise,  and  I 
suppose  mature  manhood  will  be  just  as  much  so, 
though  in  a  calmer  way,  and  age,  quieter  still,  will 
have  its  own  merits,  —  the  thing  is  only  to  do  with 
life  what  we  ought,  and  what  is  suited  to  each  of  its 
stages ;  do  all,  enjoy  all,  —  and  I  suppose  these  two 
rules  amount  to  the  same  thing.  Only  catch  real  ear 
nest  hold  of  life,  not  play  with  it,  and  not  defer  one 
part  of  it  for  the  sake  of  another,  then  each  part  of 
life  will  do  for  us  what  was  intended.  People  talk  of 
the  hardships  of  military  service,  of  the  miseries  that 
we  undergo  fighting  for  our  country.  I  have  under 
gone  my  share,  I  believe,  —  hard  toil  in  the  wilder 
ness,  hunger,  extreme  weariness,  pinching  cold,  the 
torture  of  a  wound,  peril  of  death  ;  and  really  I  have 
been  as  happy  through  it  as  ever  I  was  at  my  mother's 
cosey  fireside  of  a  winter's  evening.  If  I  had  died,  I 
doubt  not  my  last  moments  would  have  been  happy. 
There  is  no  use  of  life,  but  just  to  find  out  what  is  fit 
for  us  to  do  ;  and,  doing  it,  it  seems  to  be  little  mat 
ter  whether  we  live  or  die  in  it.  God  does  not  want 
our  work,  but  only  our  willingness  to  work ;  at  least, 
the  last  seems  to  answer  all  his  purposes." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  391 

"  This  is  a  comfortable  philosophy  of  yours,"  said 
Septimius,  rather  contemptuously,  aud  yet  enviously. 
"  Where  did  you  get  it,  'Robert  ?" 

"  Where  ?  Nowhere  ;  it  came  to  me  on  the  march  ; 
and  though  I  can't  say  that  I  thought  it  when  the  bul 
lets  pattered  into  the  snow  about  me,  in  those  narrow 
streets  of  Quebec,  yet,  I  suppose,  it  was  in  my  mind 
then  ;  for,  as  I  tell  you,  I  was  very  cheerful  and  con 
tented,  And  you,  Septimius  ?  I  never  saw  such  a 
discontented,  unhappy-looking  fellow  as  you  are.  You 
have  had  a  harder  time  in  peace  than  I  in  war.  You 
have  not  found  what  you  seek,  whatever  that  may  be. 
Take  my  advice.  Give  yourself  to  the  next  work  that 
comes  to  hand.  The  war  offers  place  to  all  of  us ;  we 
ought  to  be  thankful,  —  the  most  joyous  of  all  the 
generations  before  or  after  us,  —  since  Providence 
gives  us  such  good  work  to  live  for,  or  such  a  good 
opportunity  to  die.  It  is  worth  living  for,  just  to 
have  the  chance  to  die  so  well  as  a  man  may  in  these 
days.  Come,  be  a  soldier.  Be  a  chaplain,  since  your 
education  lies  that  way;  and  you  will  find  that  nobody 
in  peace  prays  so  well  as  we  do,  we  soldiers ;  and  you 
shall  not  be  debarred  from  fighting,  too;  if  war  is 
holy  work,  a  priest  may  lawfully  do  it,  as  well  as  pray 
for  it.  Come  with  us,  my  old  friend  Septimius,  be 
my  comrade,  and,  whether  you  live  or  die,  you  will 
thank  me  for  getting  you  out  of  the  yellow  forlornness 
in  which  you  go  on,  neither  living  nor  dying." 

Septimius  looked  at  Robert  Hagburn  in  surprise ; 
so  much  was  he  altered  and  improved  by  this  brief 
experience  of  war,  adventure,  responsibility,  which  he 
had  passed  through.  Not  less  than  the  effect  pro 
duced  on  his  loutish,  rustic  air  and  deportment,  de 
veloping  his  figure,  seeming  to  make  him  taller,  set- 


892  SEPTIM1US  FELTON. 

ting  free  the  manly  graces  that  lurked  within  his 
awkward  frame,  —  not  less  was  the  effect  on  his  mind 
and  moral  nature,  giving  freedom  of  ideas,  simple  per 
ception  of  great  thoughts,  a  free  natural  chivalry ;  so 
that  the  knight,  the  Homeric  warrior,  the  hero,  seemed 
to  be  here,  or  possible  to  be  here,  in  the  young  New 
England  rustic  ;  and  all  that  history  has  given,  and 
hearts  throbbed  and  sighed  and  gloried  over,  of  patri 
otism  and  heroic  feeling  and  action,  might  be  re 
peated,  perhaps,  in  the  life  and  death  of  this  familiar 
friend  and  playmate  of  his,  whom  he  had  valued  not 
over  highly,  —  Robert  Hagburn.  He  had  merely  fol 
lowed  out  his  natural  heart,  boldly  and  singly,  —  do 
ing  the  first  good  thing  that  came  to  hand,  —  and  here 
was  a  hero. 

"  You  almost  make  me  envy  you,  Robert,"  said  he, 
sighing. 

"  Then  why  not  -some  with  me  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Because  I  have  another  destiny,"  said  Septimius. 

"  Well,  you  are  mistaken ;  be  sure  of  that,"  said 
Robert.  "  This  is  not  a  generation  for  study,  and  the 
making  of  books ;  that  may  come  by  and  by.  This 
great  fight  has  need  of  all  men  to  carry  it  on,  in  one 
way  or  another ;  and  no  man  will  do  well,  even  for 
himself,  who  tries  to  avoid  his  share  in  it.  But  I  have 
said  my  say.  And  now,  Septimius,  the  war  takes 
much  of  a  man,  but  it  does  not  take  him  all,  and  what 
it  leaves  is  all  the  more  full  of  life  and  health  thereby. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you  about  this." 

"  Say  it  then,  Robert,"  said  Septimius,  who,  having 
got  over  the  first  excitement  of  the  interview,  and  the 
sort  of  exhilaration  produced  by  the  healthful  glow  of 
Robert's  spirit,  began  sckcretly  to  wish  that  it  might 
close,  and  to  be  permitted  to  return  to  his  solitary 
thoughts  again.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  393 

"  Why,  nothing,"  said  Robert,  looking  rather  con 
fused,  "  since  all  is  settled.  The  fact  is,  my  old 
friend,  as  perhaps  you  have  seen,  I  have  very  long  had 
an  eye  upon  your  sister  Rose  ;  yes,  from  the  time  we 
went  together  to  the  old  school-house,  where  she  now 

o 

teaches  children  like  what  we  were  then.  The  war 
took  me  away,  and  in  good  time,  for  I  doubt  if  Rose 
would  ever  have  cared  enough  for  me  to  be  my  wife, 
if  I  had  stayed  at  home,  a  country  lout,  as  I  was  get 
ting  to  be,  in  shirt-sleeves  and  bare  feet.  But  now, 
you  see,  I  have  come  back,  and  this  whole  great  war, 
to  her  woman's  heart,  is  represented  in  me,  and  makes 
me  heroic,  so  to  speak,  and  strange,  and  yet  her  old 
familiar  lover.  So  I  found  her  heart  tenderer  for  me 
than  it  was ;  and,  in  short,  Rose  has  consented  to  be 
my  wife,  and  we  mean  to  be  married  in  a  week ;  my 
furlough  permits  little  delay." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  Septimius,  who,  immersed 
in  his  own  pursuits,  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  grow 
ing  affection  between  Robert  and  his  sister.  "  Do  you 
think  it  well  to  snatch  this  little  lull  that  is  allowed  you 
in  the  wild  striving  of  war  to  try  to  make  a  peaceful 
home  ?  Shall  3*011  like  to  be  summoned  from  it  soon  ? 
Shall  you  be  as  cheerful  among  dangers  afterwards, 
when  one  sword  may  cut  down  two  happinesses  ?  " 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  and  I  have 
thought  of  it,"  said  Robert,  sighing.  "But  I  can't 
tell  how  it  is  ;  but  there  is  something  in  this  uncer 
tainty,  this  peril,  this  cloud  before  us,  that  makes  it 
sweeter  to  love  and  to  be  loved  than  amid  all  seeming 
quiet  and  serenity.  Really,  I  think,  if  there  were  to 
be  no  death,  the  beauty  of  life  would  be  all  tame.  So 
we  take  our  chance,  or  our  dispensation  of  Providence, 
and  are  going  to  love,  and  to  be  married,  just  as  confi 
dently  as  if  we  were  sure  of  living  forever." 


394  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Septimius,  with  more  cor 
diality  and  outgush  of  heart  than  he  had  felt  for  a 
long  while,  "  there  is  no  man  whom  I  should  be  hap 
pier  to  call  brother.  Take  Rose,  and  all  happiness 
along  with  her.  She  is  a  good  girl,  and  not  in  the 
least  like  me.  May  you  live  out  your  threescore 
years  and  ten,  and  every  one  of  them  be  happy." 

Little  more  passed,  and  Robert  Hagburn  took  his 
leave  with  a  hearty  shake  of  Septimius's  hand,  too 
conscious  of  his  own  happiness  to  be  quite  sensible 
how  much  the  latter  was  self-involved,  strange,  anx 
ious,  separated  from  healthy  life  and  interests  ;  and 
Septimius,  as  soon  as  Robert  had  disappeared,  locked 
the  door  behind  him,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  apply 
the  silver  key  to  the  lock  of  the  old  strong  box. 

The  lock  resisted  somewhat,  being  rusty,  as  might 
well  be  supposed  after  so  many  years  since  it  was 
opened ;  but  it  finally  allowed  the  key  to  turn,  and 
Septimius,  with  a  good  deal  of  flutter  at  his  heart, 
opened  the  lid.  The  interior  had  a  very  different  as 
pect  from  that  of  the  exterior  ;  for,  whereas  the  latter 
looked  so  old,  this,  having  been  kept  from  the  air, 
looked  about  as  new  as  when  shut  up  from  light  and 
air  two  centuries  ago,  less  or  more.  It  was  lined  with 
ivory,  beautifully  carved  in  figures,  according  to  the 
art  which  the  medieval  people  possessed  in  great  per 
fection  ;  and  probably  the  box  had  been  a  lady's 
jewel-casket  formerly,  and  had  glowed  with  rich  lustre 
and  bright  colors  at  former  openings.  But  now  there 
was  nothing  in  it  of  that  kind,  —  nothing  in  keeping 
with  those  figures  carved  in  the  ivory  representing 
some  mythical  subjects,  —  nothing  but  some  papers  in 
the  bottom  of  the  box  written  over  in  an  ancient  hand, 
which  Septimius  at  once  fancied  that  he  recognized, ai 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  395 

that  of  the  manuscript  and  recipe  which  he  had  found 
on  the  breast  of  the  young  soldier.  He  eagerly  seized 
them,  but  was  infinitely  disappointed  to  find  that  they 
did  not  seem  to  refer  at  all  to  the  subjects  treated  by 
the  former,  but  related  to  pedigrees  and  genealogies, 
and  were  in  reference  to  an  English  family  and  some 
member  of  it  who,  two  centuries  before,  had  crossed 
the  sea  to  America,  and  who,  in  this  way,  had  sought 
to  preserve  his  connection  with  his  native  stock,  so  as 
to  be  able,  perhaps,  to  prove  it  for  himself  or  his  de 
scendants  :  and  there  was  reference  to  documents  and 
records  in  England  in  confirmation  of  the  genealogy. 
Septimius  saw  that  this  paper  had  been  drawn  up  by 
an  ancestor  of  his  own,  the  unfortunate  man  who  had 
been  hanged  for  witchcraft ;  but  so  earnest  had  been 
his  expectation  of  something  different,  that  he  flung 
the  old  papers  down  with  bitter  indifference. 

Then  again  he  snatched  them  up,  and  contemp 
tuously  read  them,  —  those  proofs  of  descent  through 
generations  of  esquires  and  knights,  who  had  been  re 
nowned  in  war ;  and  there  seemed,  too,  to  be  running 
through  the  family  a  certain  tendency  to  letters,  for 
three  were  designated  as  of  the  colleges  of  Oxford  or 
Cambridge ;  and  against  one  there  was  the  note,  "  he 
that  sold  himself  to  Sathan  ;  "  and  another  seemed  to 
have  been  a  follower  of  Wickliffe  ;  and  they  had  mur 
dered  kings,  and  been  beheaded,  and  banished,  and 
what  not ;  so  that  the  age-long  life  of  this  ancient  fam 
ily  had  not  been  after  all  a  happy  or  very  prosper 
ous  one,  though  they  had  kept  their  estate,  in  one  or 
another  descendant,  since  the  Conquest.  It  was  not 
wholly  without  interest  that  Septimius  saw  that  this 
ancient  descent,  this  connection  with  noble  families, 
and  intermarriages  with  names,  some  of  which  he  reo 


896  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

ognized  as  known  in  English  history,  all  referred  to 
his  own  family,  and  seemed  to  centre  in  himself,  the 
last  of  a  poverty-stricken  line,  which  had  dwindled 
down  into  obscurity,  and  into  rustic  labor  and  humble 
toil,  reviving  in  him  a  little  ;  yet  how  little,  unless  he 
fulfilled  his  strange  purpose.  Was  it  not  better  worth 
his  while  to  take  this  English  position  here  so  strangely 
offered  him  ?  He  had  apparently  slain  unwittingly 
the  only  person  who  could  have  contested  his  rights, 
—  the  young  man  who  had  so  strangely  brought  him 
the  hope  of  unlimited  life  at  the  same  time  that  he 
was  making  room  for  him  among  his  forefathers. 
What  a  change  in  his  lot  would  have  been  here,  for 
there  seemed  to  be  some  pretensions  to  a  title,  too, 
from  a  barony  which  was  floating  about  and  occasion 
ally  moving  out  of  abeyancy  ! 

"Perhaps,"  said  Septimius  to  himself,  "I  may  here 
after  think  it  worth  while  to  assert  my  claim  to  these 
possessions,  to  this  position  amid  an  ancient  aristoc 
racy,  and  try  that  mode  of  life  for  one  generation. 
Yet  there  is  something  in  my  destiny  incompatible,  of 
course,  with  the  continued  possession  of  an  estate.  I 
must  be,  of  necessity,  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  changing  place  at  short  intervals,  disappearing 
suddenly  and  entirely  ;  else  the  foolish,  short-lived  mul 
titude  and  mob  of  mortals  will  be  enraged  with  one 
who  seems  their  brother,  yet  whose  countenance  will 
never  be  furrowed  with  his  age,  nor  his  knees  totter, 
nor  his  force  be  abated;  their  little  brevity  will  be 
rebuked  by  his  age-long  endurance,  above  whom  the 
oaken  roof-tree  of  a  thousand  years  would  crumble, 
while  still  he  would  be  hale  and  strong.  So  that  this 
house,  or  any  other,  would  be  but  a  resting-place  of  a 
day,  and  then  I  must  away  into  another  obscurity." 


SEPTIM1US   FELTOV.  397 

"With  almost  a  regret,  he  continued  to  look  over  the 
documents  until  he  reached  one  of  the  persons  recorded 
in  the  line  of  pedigree,  —  a  worthy,  apparently,  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  to  whom  was  attributed  a  title  of 
Doctor  in  Utriusque  Juris ;  and  against  his  name  was 
a  verse  of  Latin  written,  for  what  purpose  Septimius 
knew  not,  for,  on  reading  it,  it  appeared  to  have  no 
discoverable  appropriateness  ;  but  suddenly  he  remem 
bered  the  blotted  and  imperfect  hieroglyphical  pas 
sage  in  the  recipe.  He  thought  an  instant,  and  was 
convinced  this  was  the  full  expression  and  outwriting 
of  that  crabbed  little  mystery ;  and  that  here  was  part 
of  that  secret  writing  for  which  the  Age  of  Elizabeth 
was  so  famous  and  so  dexterous.  His  mind  had  a 
flash  of  light  upon  it,  and  from  that  moment  he  was 
enabled  to  read  not  only  the  recipe  but  the  rules,  and 
all  the  rest  of  that  mysterious  document,  in  a  way 
which  he  had  never  thought  of  before ;  to  discern  that 
it  was  not  to  be  taken  literally  and  simply,  but  had  a 
hidden  process  involved  in  it  that  made  the  whole 
thing  infinitely  deeper  than  he  had  hitherto  deemed  it 
to  be.  His  brain  reeled,  he  seemed  to  have  taken  a 
draught  of  some  liquor  that  opened  infinite  depths 
before  him,  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  giving  a 
shout  of  triumphant  exultation,  the  house  could  not 
contain  him,  he  rushed  up  to  his  hill-top,  and  there, 
after  walking  swiftly  to  and  fro,  at  length  flung  him 
self  on  the  little  hillock,  and  burst  forth,  as  if  address 
ing  him  who  slept  beneath. 

"  O  brother,  O  friend  !  "  said  he,  "  I  thank  thee  for 
thy  matchless  beneficence  to  me ;  for  all  which  I  re 
warded  thee  with  this  little  spot  on  my  hill-top.  Thou 
wast  very  good,  very  kind.  It  would  not  have  been 
well  for  thee,  a  youth  of  fiery  joys  and  passions,  loving 


398  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

to  laugh,  loving  the  lightness  and  sparkling  brilliancy 
of  life,  to  take  this  boon  to  thyself ;  for,  O  brother !  1 
see,  I  see,  it  requires  a  strong  spirit,  capable  of  much 
lonely  endurance,  able  to  be  sufficient  to  itself,  loving 
not  too  much,  dependent  on  no  sweet  ties  of  affection, 
to  be  capable  of  the  mighty  trial  which  now  devolves 
on  me.  I  thank  thee,  O  kinsman !  Yet  thou,  I  feel, 
hast  the  better  part,  who  didst  so  soon  lie  down  to 
rest,  who  hast  done  forever  with  this  troublesome 
world,  which  it  is  mine  to  contemplate  from  age  to 
age,  and  to  sum  up  the  meaning  of  it.  Thou  art  dis 
porting  thyself  in  other  spheres.  I  enjoy  the  high, 
severe,  fearful  office  of  living  here,  and  of  being  tho 
minister  of  Providence  from  one  age  to  many  succes 
sive  ones." 

In  this  manner  he  raved,  as  never  before,  in  a  strain 
of  exalted  enthusiasm,  securely  treading  on  air,  and 
sometimes  stopping  to  shout  aloud,  and  feeling  as  if 
he  should  burst  if  he  did  not  do  so ;  and  his  voice 
came  back  to  him  again  from  the  low  hills  on  the  other 
side  of  the  broad,  level  valley,  and  out  of  the  woods 
afar,  mocking  him ;  or  as  if  it  were  airy  spirits,  that 
knew  how  it  was  all  to  be,  confirming  his  cry,  saying 
"  It  shall  be  so,"  "  Thou  hast  found  it  at  last,"  "  Thou 
art  immortal."  And  it  seemed  as  if  Nature  were  in 
clined  to  celebrate  his  triumph  over  herself ;  for  above 
the  woods  that  crowned  the  hill  to  the  northward, 
there  were  shoots  and  streams  of  radiance,  a  white,  a 
red,  a  many-colored  lustre,  blazing  up  high  towards 
the  zenith,  dancing  up,  flitting  down,  dancing  up  again ; 
so  that  it  seemed  as  if  spirits  were  keeping  a  revel 
there.  The  leaves  of  the  trees  on  the  hill-side,  all  ex 
cept  the  evergreens,  had  now  mostly  fallen  with  tho 
autumn ;  so  that  Septimius  was  seen  by  the  few  pas* 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  399 

ers-by,  in  the  decline  of  the  afternoon,  passing  to  and 
fro  along  his  path,  wildly  gesticulating ;  and  heard  to 
shout  so  that  the  echoes  came  from  all  directions  to 
answer  him.  After  nightfall,  too,  in  the  harvest  moon 
light,  a  shadow  was  still  seen  passing  there,  waving 
its  arms  in  shadowy  triumph ;  so,  the  next  day,  there 
were  various  goodly  stories  afloat  and  astir,  coming 
out  of  successive  mouths,  more  wondrous  at  each  birth ; 
the  simplest  form  of  the  story  being,  that  Septimius 
Felton  had  at  last  gone  raving  mad  on  the  hill-top 
that  he  was  so  fond  of  haunting ;  and  those  who  lis 
tened  to  his  shrieks  said  that  he  was  calling  to  the 
Devil ;  and  some  said  that  by  certain  exorcisms  he 
had  caused  the  appearance  of  a  battle  in  the  air,  charg 
ing  squadrons,  cannon-flashes,  champions  encounter 
ing ;  all  of  which  foreboded  some  real  battle  to  be 
fought  with  the  enemies  of  the  country ;  and  as  the 
battle  of  Monmouth  chanced  to  occur,  either  the  very 
next  day,  or  about  that  time,  this  was  supposed  to  be 
either  caused  or  foretold  by  Septiinius's  eccentricities ; 
and  as  the  battle  was  not  very  favorable  to  our  arms, 
the  patriotism  of  Septimius  suffered  much  in  popular 
estimation. 

But  he  knew  nothing,  thought  nothing,  cared  noth 
ing  about  his  country,  or  his  country's  battles  ;  he 
was  as  sane  as  he  had  been  for  a  year  past,  and  was 
wise  enough,  though  merely  by  instinct,  to  throw  off 
some  of  his  superfluous  excitement  by  these  wild  ges 
tures,  with  wild  shouts,  and  restless  activity ;  and  when 
he  had  partly  accomplished  this  he  returned  to  the 
house,  and,  late  as  it  was,  kindled  his  fire,  and  began 
anew  the  processes  of  chemistry,  now  enlightened  by 
the  late  teachings.  A  new  agent  seemed  to  him  to 
mix  itself  up  with  his  toil  and  to  forward  his  pur- 


400  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

pose ;  something  helped  him  along ;  everything  became 
facile  to  his  manipulation,  clear  to  his  thought.  In 
this  way  he  spent  the  night,  and  when  at  sunrise  he 
let  in  the  eastern  light  upon  his  study,  the  thing  was 
done. 

Septimius  had  achieved  it.  That  is  to  say,  he  had 
succeeded  in  amalgamating  his  materials  so  that  they 
acted  upon  one  another,  and  in  accordance  ;  and  had 
produced  a  result  that  had  a  subsistence  in  itself,  and 
a  right  to  be ;  a  something  potent  and  substantial ; 
each  ingredient  contributing  its  part  to  form  a  new 
essence,  which  was  as  real  and  individual  as  anything 
it  was  formed  from.  But  in  order  to  perfect  it,  there 
was  necessity  that  the  powers  of  nature  should  act 
quietly  upon  it  through  a  month  of  sunshine  ;  that  the 
moon,  too,  should  have  its  part  in  the  production  ;  and 
so  he  must  wait  patiently  for  this.  Wait !  surely  he 
would  !  Had  he  not  time  for  waiting  ?  Were  he  to 
wait  till  old  age,  it  would  not  be  too  much ;  for  all  fu 
ture  time  would  have  it  in  charge  to  repay  him. 

So  he  poured  the  inestimable  liquor  into  a  glass 
vase,  well  secured  from  the  air,  and  placed  it  in  the 
sunshine,  shifting  it  from  one  sunny  window  to  an 
other,  in  order  that  it  might  ripen ;  moving  it  gently 
lest  he  should  disturb  the  living  spirit  that  he  knew  to 
be  in  it.  And  he  watched  it  from  clay  to  day,  watched 
the  reflections  in  it,  watched  its  lustre,  which  seemed 
to  him  to  grow  greater  day  by  day,  as  if  it  imbibed 
the  sunlight  into  it.  Never  was  there  anything  so 
bright  as  this.  It  changed  its  hue,  too,  gradually,  be 
ing  now  a  rich  purple,  now  a  crimson,  now  a  violet, 
now  a  blue ;  going  through  all  these  prismatic  colors 
without  losing  any  of  its  brilliance,  and  never  was 
there  such  a  hue  as  the  sunlight  took  in  falling  through 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  401 

it  and  resting  on  his  floor.  And  strange  and  beaiv 
tiful  it  was,  too,  to  look  through  this  medium  at  the 
outer  world,  and  see  how  it  was  glorified  and  made 
anew,  and  did  not  look  like  the  same  world,  although 
there  were  all  its  familiar  marks.  And  then,  past  his 
window,  seen  through  this,  went  the  farmer  and  his 
wife,  on  saddle  and  pillion,  jogging  to  meeting-house 
or  market;  and  the  very  dog,  the  cow  coming  home 
from  pasture,  the  old  familiar  faces  of  his  childhood, 
looked  differently.  And  so  at  last,  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  it  settled  into  a  most  deep  and  brilliant  crim 
son,  as  if  it  were  the  essence  of  the  blood  of  the  young 
man  whom  he  had  slain  ;  the  flower  being  now  trium 
phant,  it  had  given  its  own  hue  to  the  whole  mass,  and 
had  grown  brighter  every  day ;  so  that  it  seemed  to 
have  inherent  light,  as  if  it  were  a  planet  by  itself,  a 
heart  of  crimson  fire  burning  within  it. 

And  when  this  had  been  done,  and  there  was  no 
more  change,  showing  that  the  digestion  was  perfect, 
then  he  took  it  and  placed  it  where  the  changing  moon 
would  fall  upon  it ;  and  then  again  he  watched  it, 
covering  it  in  darkness  by  day,  revealing  it  to  the 
moon  by  night;  and  watching  it  here,  too,  through 
more  changes.  And  by  and  by  he  perceived  that  the 
deep  crimson  hue  was  departing,  —  not  fading ;  we 
cannot  say  that,  because  of  the  prodigious  lustre  which 
still  pervaded  it,  and  was  not  less  strong  than  ever ; 
but  certainly  the  hue  became  fainter,  now  a  rose-color, 
now  fainter,  fainter  still,  till  there  was  only  left  the 
purest  whiteness  of  the  moon  itself  ;  a  change  that 
somewhat  disappointed  and  grieved  Septimius,  though 
still  it  seemed  fit  that  the  water  of  life  should  be  of  no 
one  richness,  because  it  must  combine  all.  As  the  ab 
sorbed  young  man  gazed  through  the  lonely  nights  at 


402  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

his  beloved  liquor,  he  fancied  sometimes  that  he  could 
see  wonderful  things  in  the  crystal  sphere  of  the  vase; 
as  in  Doctor  Dee's  magic  crystal  used  to  be  seen,  which 
now  lies  in  the  British  Museum  ;  representations,  it 
might  be,  of  things  in  the  far  past,  or  in  the  further 
future,  scenes  in  which  he  himself  was  to  act,  persons 
yet  unborn,  the  beautiful  and  the  wise,  with  whom  he 
was  to  be  associated,  palaces  and  towers,  modes  of 
hitherto  unseen  architecture,  that  old  hall  in  England 
to  which  he  had  a  hereditary  right,  with  its  gables, 
and  its  smooth  lawn  ;  the  witch  -  meetings  in  which 
his  ancestor  used  to  take  part ;  Aunt  Keziah  on  her 
death-bed ;  and,  flitting  through  all,  the  shade  of  Sibyl 
Dacy,  eying  him  from  secret  nooks,  or  some  remote 
ness,  with  her  peculiar  mischievous  smile,  beckoning 
him  into  the  sphere.  All  such  visions  would  he  see, 
and  then  become  aware  that  he  had  been  in  a  dream, 
superinduced  by  too  much  watching,  too  intent  thought ; 
so  that  living  among  so  many  dreams,  he  was  almost 
afraid  that  he  should  find  himself  waking  out  of  yet 
another,  and  find  that  the  vase  itself  and  the  liquid  it 
contained  were  also  dream-stuff.  But  no  ;  these  were 
real. 

There  was  one  change  that  surprised  him,  although 
he  accepted  it  without  doubt,  and,  indeed,  it  did  imply 
a  wonderful  efficacy,  at  least  singularity,  in  the  newly 
converted  liquid.  It  grew  strangely  cool  in  tempera 
ture  in  the  latter  part  of  his  watching  it.  It  appeared 
to  imbibe  its  coldness  from  the  cold,  chaste  moon,  until 
it  seemed  to  Septimius  that  it  was  colder  than  ice  it 
self  ;  the  mist  gathered  upon  the  crystal  vase  as  upon 
a  tumbler  of  iced  water  in  a  warm  room.  Some  say 
it  actually  gathered  thick  with  frost,  crystallized  into 
a  thousand  fantastic  and  beautiful  shapes,  but  this  J 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  403 

do  not  know  so  well.  Only  it  was  very  cold.  Septim- 
ius  pondered  upon  it,  and  thought  he  saw  that  life 
itself  was  cold,  individual  in  its  being,  a  high,  pure 
essence,  chastened  from  all  heats  ;  cold,  therefore,  and 
therefore  invigorating. 

Thus  much,  inquiring  deeply,  and  with  painful  re 
search  into  the  liquid  which  Septimius  concocted,  have 
I  been  able  to  learn  about  it,  —  its  aspect,  its  prop 
erties  ;  and  now  I  suppose  it  to  be  quite  perfect,  and 
that  nothing  remains  but  to  put  it  to  such  use  as  he 
had  so  long  been  laboring  for.  But  this,  somehow  or 
other,  he  found  in  himself  a  strong  reluctance  to  do ; 
he  paused,  as  it  were,  at  the  point  where  his  pathway 
separated  itself  from  that  of  other  men,  and  meditated 
whether  it  were  worth  while  to  give  up  everything 
that  Providence  had  provided,  and  take  instead  only 
this  lonely  gift  of  immortal  life.  Not  that  he  ever 
really  had  any  doubt  about  it ;  no,  indeed  ;  but  it  was 
his  security,  his  consciousness  that  he  held  the  bright 
sphere  of  all  futurity  in  his  hand,  that  made  him  dally 
a  little,  now  that  he  could  quaff  immortality  as  soon 
as  he  liked. 

Besides,  now  that  he  looked  forward  from  the  verge 
of  mortal  destiny,  the  path  before  him  seemed  so  very 
lonely.  Might  he  not  seek  some  one  own  friend  — 
one  single  heart  —  before  he  took  the  final  step  ? 
There  was  Sibyl  Dacy !  Oh,  what  bliss,  if  that  pale 
girl  might  set  out  with  him  on  his  journey !  how  sweet, 
how  sweet,  to  wander  with  her  through  the  places 
else  so  desolate !  for  he  could  but  half  see,  half  know 
things,  without  her  to  help  him.  And  perhaps  it  might 
be  so.  She  must  already  know,  or  strongly  suspect, 
that  he  was  engaged  in  some  deep,  mysterious  re 
search  ;  it  might  be  that,  with  her  sources  of  myste- 


404  SEPTIMWS  F ELTON. 

rious  knowledge  among  her  legendary  lore,  she  knew 
of  this.  Then,  oh,  to  think  of  those  dreams  which 
lovers  have  always  had,  when  their  new  love  makes 
the  old  earth  seem  so  happj^  and  glorious  a  place,  that 
not  a  thousand  nor  an  endless  succession  of  years  can 
exhaust  it,  —  all  those  realized  for  him  and  her  !  If 
this  could  not  be,  what  should  he  do?  Would  he  ven 
ture  onward  into  such  a  wintry  futurity,  symbolized, 
perhaps,  by  the  coldness  of  the  crystal  goblet?  He 
shivered  at  the  thought. 

Now,  what  had  passed  between  Septimius  and  Sibyl 
Dacy  is  not  upon  record,  only  that  one  day  they  were 
walking  together  on  the  hill-top,  or  sitting  by  the  little 
hillock,  and  talking  earnestly  together.  Sib}d's  face 
was  a  little  flushed  with  some  excitement,  and  really 
she  looked  very  beautiful ;  and  Septimius' s  dark  face, 
too,  had  a  solemn  triumph  in  it  that  made  him  also 
beautiful ;  so  rapt  he  was  after  all  those  watchings, 
and  emaciations,  and  the  pure,  unworldly,  self-denying 
life  that  he  had  spent.  They  talked  as  if  there  were 
some  foregone  conclusion  on  which  they  based  what 
they  said. 

"  Will  you  not  be  weary  in  the  time  that  we  shall 
spend  together?"  asked  he. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Sibyl,  smiling,  UI  am  sure  that  it  will 
be  very  full  of  enjoyment." 

"  Yes,"  said  Septimius,  "  though  now  I  must  re 
mould  my  anticipations  ;  for  I  have  only  dared,  hith 
erto,  to  map  out  a  solitary  existence." 

"  And  how  did  you  do  that? "  asked  Sibyl. 

"  Oh,  there  is  nothing  that  would  come  amiss,"  an 
swered  Septimius ;  "  for,  truly,  as  I  have  lived  apart 
from  men,  yet  it  is  really  not  because  I  have  no  taste 
for  whatever  humanity  includes :  but  I  would  fain,  if 


SEP  TI  Ml  US  F ELTON.  405 

I  might,  live  everybody's  life  at  once,  or,  since  that 
may  not  be,  each  in  succession.  I  would  try  the  life 
of  power,  ruling  men  ;  but  that  might  come  later,  af 
ter  I  had  had  long  experience  of  men,  and  had  lived 
through  much  history,  and  had  seen,  as  a  disinterested 
observer,  how  men  might  best  be  influenced  for  their 
own  good.  I  would  be  a  great  traveller  at  first ;  and 
as  a  man  newly  coming  into  possession  of  an  estate 
goes  over  it,  and  views  each  separate  field  and  wood- 
lot,  and  whatever  features  it  contains,  so  will  I,  whose 
the  world  is,  because  I  possess  it  forever ;  whereas  all 
others  are  but  transitory  guests.  So  will  I  wander 
over  this  world  of  mine,  and  be  acquainted  with  all  its 
shores,  seas,  rivers,  mountains,  fields,  and  the  various 
peoples  who  inhabit  them,  and  to  whom  it  is  my  pur 
pose  to  be  a  benefactor  ;  for  think  not,  dear  Sibyl, 
that  I  suppose  this  great  lot  of  mine  to  have  devolved 
upon  me  without  great  duties,  —  heavy  and  difficult 
to  fulfil,  though  glorious  in  their  adequate  fulfilment. 
But  for  all  this  there  will  be  time.  In  a  century  I 
shall  partially  have  seen  this  earth,  and  known  at  least 
its  boundaries,  — have  gotten  for  myself  the  outline, 
to  be  filled  up  hereafter." 

"  And  I,  too,"  said  Sibyl,  "  will  have  my  duties  and 
labors  ;  for  while  you  are  wandering  about  among 
men,  I  will  go  among  women,  and  observe  and  con 
verse  with  them,  from  the  princess  to  the  peasant-girl ; 
and  will  find  out  what  is  the  matter,  that  woman  gets 
so  large  a  share  of  human  misery  laid  on  her  weak 
shoulders.  I  will  SQC  why  it  is  that,  whether  she  be  a 
royal  princess,  she  has  to  be  sacrificed  to  matters  of 
state,  or  a  cottage-girl,  still  somehow  the  thing  not  fit 
for  her  is  done ;  and  whether  there  is  or  no  some 
deadly  curse  on  woman,  so  that  she  has  nothing  to  do, 


406  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

and  nothing  to  enjoy,  but  only  to  be  wronged  by  man, 
and  still  to  love  him,  and  despise  herself  for  it,  —  to 
be  shaky  in  her  revenges.  And  then  if,  after  all  this 
investigation,  it  turns  out  —  as  I  suspect  —  that  wo 
man  is  not  capable  of  being  helped,  that  there  is  some 
thing  inherent  in  herself  that  makes  it  hopeless  to 
struggle  for  her  redemption,  then  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Nay,  I  know  not,  unless  to  preach  to  the  sisterhood 
that  they  all  kill  their  female  children  as  fast  as  they 
are  born,  and  then  let  the  generations  of  men  manage 
as  they  can  !  Woman,  so  feeble  and  crazy  in  body, 
fair  enough  sometimes,  but  full  of  infirmities ;  not 
strong,  with  nerves  prone  to  every  pain ;  ailing,  full 
of  little  weaknesses,  more  contemptible  than  great 
ones!" 

"  That  would  be  a  dreary  end,  Sibyl,"  said  Septim- 
ius.  "  But  I  trust  that  we  shall  be  able  to  hush  up 
this  weary  and  perpetual  wail  of  womankind  on  easier 
terms  than  that.  Well,  dearest  Sibyl,  after  we  have 
spent  a  hundred  years  in  examining  into  the  real  state 
of  mankind,  and  another  century  in  devising  and  put 
ting  in  execution  remedies  for  his  ills,  until  our  ma- 
turer  thought  has  time  to  perfect  his  cure,  we  shall 
then  have  earned  a  little  playtime,  —  a  century  of  pas 
time,  in  which  we  will  search  out  whatever  joy  can  be 
had  by  thoughtful  people,  and  that  childlike  sportive- 
ness  which  comes  out  of  growing  wisdom,  and  enjoy 
ment  of  every  kind.  We  will  gather  about  us  every 
thing  beautiful  and  stately,  a  great  palace,  for  we  shall 
then  be  so  experienced  that  all  riches  will  be  easy  for 
us  to  get ;  with  rich  furniture,  pictures,  statues,  and  all 
royal  ornaments ;  and  side  by  side  with  this  life  we 
will  have  a  little  cottage,  and  see  which  is  the  hap 
piest,  for  this  has  always  been  a  dispute.  For  this 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  407 

century  we  will  neither  toil  nor  spin,  nor  think  of  any 
thing  beyond  the  day  that  is  passing  over  us.  There 
is  time  enough  to  do  all  that  we  have  to  do." 

"  A  hundred  years  of  play !  Will  not  that  be  tire 
some  ?  "  said  Sibyl. 

"  If  it  is,"  said  Septimius,  "  the  next  century  shall 
make  up  for  it ;  for  then  we  will  contrive  deep  philoso 
phies,  take  up  one  theory  after  another,  and  find  out 
its  hollowness  and  inadequacy,  and  fling  it  aside,  the 
rotten  rubbish  that  they  all  are,  until  we  have  strewn 
the  whole  realm  of  human  thought  with  the  broken 
fragments,  all  smashed  up.  And  then,  on  this  great 
mound  of  broken  potsherds  (like  that  great  Monte 
Testaccio,  which  we  will  go  to  Rome  to  see),  we  will 
build  a  system  that  shall  stand,  and  by  which  man 
kind  shall  look  far  into  the  ways  of  Providence,  and 
find  practical  uses  of  the  deepest  kind  in  what  it  has 
thought  merely  speculation.  And  then,  when  the  hun 
dred  years  are  over,  and  this  great  work  done,  we  will 
still  be  so  free  in  mind,  that  we  shall  see  the  empti 
ness  of  our  own  theory,  though  men  see  only  its  truth. 
And  so,  if  we  like  more  of  this  pastime,  then  shall  an 
other  and  another  century,  and  as  many  more  as  we 
like,  be  spent  in  the  same  way." 

"  And  after  that  another  play  -  day  ?  "  asked  Sibyl 
Dacy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Septimius,  "  only  it  shall  not  be  called 
so  ;  for  the  next  century  we  will  get  ourselves  made 
rulers  of  the  earth ;  and  knowing  men  so  well,  and 
having  so  wrought  our  theories  of  government  and 
what  not,  we  will  proceed  to  execute  them,  —  which 
will  be  as  easy  to  us  as  a  child's  arrangement  of  its 
dolls.  We  will  smile  superior,  to  see  what  a  facile 
thing  it  is  to  make  a  people  happy.  In  our  reign  of 


408  SEPTIMIUS  FELT  ON. 

a  hundred  years,  we  shall  have  time  to  extinguish 
errors,  and  make  the  world  see  the  absurdity  of  them ; 
to  substitute  other  methods  of  government  for  the  old, 
bad  ones ;  to  fit  the  people  to  govern  itself,  to  do  with 
little  government,  to  do  with  none ;  and  when  this  is 
effected,  we  will  vanish  from  our  loving  people,  and 
be  seen  no  more,  but  be  reverenced  as  gods,  —  we, 
meanwhile,  being  overlooked,  and  smiling  to  ourselves, 
amid  the  very  crowd  that  is  looking  for  us." 

"  I  intend,"  said  Sibyl,  making  this  wild  talk  wilder 
by  that  petulance  which  she  so  often  showed,  —  "  I 
intend  to  introduce  a  new  fashion  of  dress  when  I  am 
queen,  and  that  shall  be  my  part  of  the  great  reform 
which  you  are  going  to  make.  And  for  my  crown,  I 
intend  to  have  it  of  flowers,  in  which  that  strange 
crimson  one  shall  be  the  chief ;  and  when  I  vanish, 
this  flower  shall  remain  behind,  and  perhaps  they  shall 
have  a  glimpse  of  me  wearing  it  in  the  crowd.  Well, 
what  next?" 

"  After  this,"  said  Septimius,  "  having  seen  so  much 
of  affairs,  and  having  lived  so  many  hundred  years,  I 
will  sit  down  and  write  a  history,  such  as  histories 
ought  to  be,  and  never  have  been.  And  it  shall  be 
so  wise,  and  so  vivid,  and  so  self -evidently  true,  that 
people  shall  be  convinced  from  it  that  there  is  some 
undying  one  among  them,  because  only  an  eye-witness 
could  have  written  it,  or  could  have  gained  so  much 
wisdom  as  was  needful  for  it." 

"  And  for  my  part  in  the  history,"  said  Sibyl,  "  I 
will  record  the  various  lengths  of  women's  waists,  and 
the  fashion  of  their  sleeves.  What  next  ?  " 

"  By  this  time,"  said  Septimius,  —  "  how  many  hun 
dred  years  have  we  now  lived  ?  —  by  this  time,  I  shall 
have  pretty  well  prepared  myself  for  what  I  have  been 


SEP  TIMI  US  FELT  ON.  409 

contemplating  from  the  first.  I  will  become  a  relig 
ious  teacher,  and  promulgate  a  faith,  and  prove  it  by 
prophecies  and  miracles  ;  for  my  long  experience  will 
enable  me  to  do  the  first,  and  the  acquaintance  which 
I  shall  have  formed  with  the  mysteries  of  science  will 
put  the  latter  at  my  fingers'  ends.  So  I  will  be  a 
prophet,  a  greater  than  Mahomet,  and  will  put  all 
man's  hopes  into  my  doctrine,  and  make  him  good, 
holy,  happy ;  and  he  shall  put  up  his  prayers  to  his 
Creator,  and  find  them  answered,  because  they  shall 
be  wise,  and  accompanied  with  effort.  This  will  be  a 
great  work,  and  may  earn  me  another  rest  and  pas 
time." 

\_ffe  would  see,  in  one  age,  the  column  raised  in 
memory  of  some  great  deed  of  Ms  in  a  former  one.'] 

"  And  what  shall  that  be  ?'"  asked  Sibyl  Dacy. 

"  Why,"  said  Septimius,  looking  askance  at  her,  and 
speaking  with  a  certain  hesitation,  "  I  have  learned, 
Sibyl,  that  it  is  a  weary  toil  for  a  man  to  be  always 
good,  hoty,  and  upright.  In  my  life  as  a  sainted 
prophet,  I  shall  have  somewhat  too  much  of  this  ;  it 
will  be  enervating  and  sickening,  and  I  shall  need  an 
other  kind  of  diet.  So,  in  the  next  hundred  years, 
Sibyl,  —  in  that  one  little  century,  —  methinks  I 
wTould  fain  be  what  men  call  wicked.  How  can  I 
know  my  brethren,  unless  I  do  that  once  ?  I  would 
experience  all.  Imagination  is  only  a  dream.  I  can 
imagine  myself  a  murderer,  and  all  other  modes  of 
crime  ;  but  it  leaves  no  real  impression  on  the  heart. 
I  must  live  these  things." 

[Tlie  rampant  unrestraint,  which  is  the  charac 
teristic  of  wickedness.] 

"  Good,"  said  Sibyl,  quietly;  "  and  I  too." 

"  And  thou  too  .<  "  exclaimed  Septimius.     "  Not  so, 


410  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

Sibyl.  I  would  reserve  tliee,  good  and  pure,  so  that 
there  may  be  to  me  the  means  of  redemption,  —  some 
stable  hold  in  the  moral  confusion  that  I  will  create 
around  myself,  whereby  I  shall  by  and  by  get  back 
into  order,  virtue,  and  religion.  Else  all  is  lost,  and 
I  may  become  a  devil,  and  make  my  own  hell  around 
me  ;  so,  Sibyl,  do  thou  be  good  forever,  and  not  fall 
nor  slip  a  moment.  Promise  me !  " 

"  We  will  consider  about  that  in  some  other  cen 
tury,"  replied  Sibyl,  composedly.  "  There  is  time 
enough  yet.  What  next  ?  " 

"  Nay,  this  is  enough  for  the  present,"  said  Septiru- 
ius.  "  New  vistas  will  open  themselves  before  us  con 
tinually,  as  we  go  onward.  How  idle  to  think  that 
one  little  lifetime  would  exhaust  the  world  !  After 
hundreds  of  centuries,  I  feel  as  if  we  might  still  be 
on  the  threshold.  There  is  the  material  world,  for  in 
stance,  to  perfect ;  to  draw  out  the  powers  of  nature, 
so  that  man  shall,  as  it  were,  give  life  to  all  modes 
of  matter,  and  make  them  his  ministering  servants. 
Swift  ways  of  travel,  by  earth,  sea,  and  air ;  machines 
for  doing  whatever  the  hand  of  man  now  does,  so  that 
we  shall  do  all  but  put  souls  into  our  wheel-work  and 
watch-work  ;  the  modes  of  making  night  into  day  ;  of 
getting  control  over  the  weather  and  the  seasons  ;  the 
virtues  of  plants,  —  these  are  some  of  the  easier  things 
thou  shalt  help  me  do." 

"  I  have  no  taste  for  that,"  said  Sibyl,  "  unless  I 
could  make  an  embroidery  worked  of  steel." 

"  And  so,  Sibyl,"  continued  Septimius,  pursuing 
his  strain  of  solemn  enthusiasm,  intermingled  as  it 
was  with  wild,  excursive  vagaries,  "  we  will  go  on  as 
many  centuries  as  we  choose.  Perhaps,  —  yet  I  think 
not  so,  —  perhaps,  however,  in  the  course  of  length- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  411 

ened  time,  we  may  find  that  the  world  is  the  same  al 
ways,  and  mankind  the  same,  and  all  possibilities  of 
human  fortune  the  same ;  so  that  by  and  by  we  shall 
discover  that  the  same  old  scenery  serves  the  world's 
stage  in  all  ages,  and  that  the  story  is  always  the 
same  ;  yes,  and  the  actors  always  the  same,  though 
none  but  we  can  be  aware  of  it ;  and  that  the  actors 
and  spectators  would  grow  weary  of  it,  were  they  not 
bathed  in  forgetful  sleep,  and  so  think  themselves  new 
made  in  each  successive  lifetime.  "We  may  find  that 
the  stuff  of  the  world's  drama,  and  the  passions  which 
seem  to  play  in  it,  have  a  monotony,  when  once  we 
have  tried  them  ;  that  in  only  once  trying  them,  and 
viewing  them,  we  find  out  their  secret,  and  that  after 
wards  the  show  is  too  superficial  to  arrest  our  atten 
tion.  As  dramatists  and  novelists  repeat  their  plots, 
so  does  man's  life  repeat  itself,  and  at  length  grows 
stale.  This  is  what,  in  my  desponding  moments,  I 
have  sometimes  suspected.  What  to  do,  if  this  be 
so?" 

"  Nay,  that  is  a  serious  consideration,"  replied  Sibyl, 
assuming  an  air  of  mock  alarm,  "if  you  really  think 
we  shall  be  tired  of  life,  whether  or  no." 

"  I  do  not  think  it,  Sibyl,"  replied  Septimius.  "  By 
much  musing  on  this  matter,  I  have  convinced  myself 
that  man  is  not  capable  of  debarring  himself  utterly 
from  death,  since  it  is  evidently  a  remedy  for  many 
evils  that  nothing  else  would  cure.  This  means  that 
we  have  discovered  of  removing  death  to  an  indefinite 
distance  is  not  supernatural ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
most  natural  tiling  in  the  world,  —  the  very  perfection 
of  the  natural,  s'nce  it  consists  in  applying  the  powers 
and  processes  of  Nature  to  the  prolongation  of  the  ex 
istence  of  man,  her  most  perfect  handiwork  ;  and  this 


412  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

could  only  be  done  by  entire  accordance  and  co-effort 
with  Nature.  Therefore  Nature  is  not  changed,  an  1 
death  remains  as  one  of  her  steps,  just  as  heretofore. 
Therefore,  when  we  have  exhausted  the  world,  whether 
by  going  through  its  apparently  vast  variety,  or  by 
satisfying  ourselves  that  it  is  all  a  repetition  of  ono 
thing,  we  will  call  death  as  the  friend  to  introduce  us 
to  something  new." 

\JEle  would  write  a  poem,  or  other  great  work,  in 
appreciable  at  first,  and  live  to  see  it  famous,  —  him 
self  among  his  own  posterity.] 

"  Oh,  insatiable  love  of  life !  "  exclaimed  Sibyl>  look 
ing  at  him  with  strange  pity.  "  Canst  thou  not  con 
ceive  that  mortal  brain  and  heart  might  at  length  be 
content  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  Never,  Sibyl !  "  replied  Septimius,  with  horror. 
"  My  spirit  delights  in  the  thought  of  an  infinite  eter 
nity.  Does  not  thine  ?  " 

"  One  little  interval  —  a  few  centuries  only  —  of 
dreamless  sleep,"  said  Sibyl,  pleadingly.  "  Cannot 
you  allow  me  that  ?  " 

"I  fear,"  said  Septimius,  "our  identity  would  change 
in  that  repose ;  it  would  be  a  Lethe  between  the  two 
parts  of  our  being,  and  with  such  disconnection  a  con 
tinued  life  would  be  equivalent  to  a  new  one,  and 
therefore  valueless." 

In  such  talk,  snatching  in  the  fog  at  the  fragments 
of  philosophy,  they  continued  fitfully ;  Septimius  calm 
ing  down  his  enthusiasm  thus,  which  otherwise  might 
have  burst  forth  in  madness,  affrighting  the  quiet  little 
village  with  the  marvellous  things  about  which  they 
mused.  Septimius  could  not  quite  satisfy  himself 
whether  Sibyl  Dacy  shared  in  his  belief  of  the  success 
of  his  experiment,  and  was  confident.,  as  he  was,  that 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  413 

he  held  in  his  control  the  means  of  unlimited  life  ; 
neither  was  he  sure  that  she  loved  him,  —  loved  him 
well  enough  to  undertake  with  him  the  long  march 
that  he  propounded  to  her,  making  a  union  an  affair 
of  so  vastly  more  importance  than  it  is  in  the  brief 
lifetime  of  other  mortals.  But  he  determined  to  let 
her  drink  the  invaluable  draught  along  with  him,  and 
to  trust  to  the  long  future,  and  the  better  opportunities 
that  time  would  give  him,  and  his  outliving  all  rivals, 
and  the  loneliness  which  an  undying  life  would  throw 
around  her,  without  him,  as  the  pledges  of  his  suc 
cess. 

And  now  the  happy  day  had  come  for  the  celebra 
tion  of  Robert  Hagburivs  marriage  with  pretty  Rose 
Garfield,  the  brave  with  the  fair ;  and,  as  usual,  the 
ceremony  was  to  take  place  in  the  evening,  and  at  the 
house  of  the  bride  ;  and  preparations  were  made  ac 
cordingly :  the  wedding-cake,  which  the  bride's  own 
fair  hands  had  mingled  with  her  tender  hopes,  and  sea 
soned  it  with  maiden  fears,  so  that  its  composition  was 
as  much  ethereal  as  sensual ;  and  the  neighbors  and 
friends  were  invited,  and  came  with  their  best  wishes 
and  good-will.  For  Rose  shared  not  at  all  the  distrust, 
the  suspicion,  or  whatever  it  was,  that  had  waited  on 
the  true  branch  of  Septimius's  family,  in  one  shape  or 
another,  ever  since  the  memory  of  man  ;  and  all  —  ex 
cept,  it  might  be,  some  disappointed  damsels  who  had 
hoped  to  win  Robert  Hagburn  for  themselves  —  re 
joiced  at  the  approaching  union  of  this  fit  couple,  and 
wished  them  happiness. 

Septimius,  too,  accorded  his  gracious  consent  to  the 
union,  and  while  he  thought  within  himself  that  such  a 
brief  union  was  not  worth  the  trouble  and  feeling  which 


414  SEPT1MIUS  FELTON. 

his  sister  and  her  lover  wasted  on  it,  still  he  wished 
them  happinesSo  As .  he  compared  their  brevity  with 
his  long  duration,  he  smiled  at  their  little  fancies  of 
loves,  of  which  he  seemed  to  see  the  end  ;  the  flower 
of  a  brief  summer,  blooming  beautifully  enough,  and 
shedding  its  leaves,  the  fragrance  of  which  would  lin 
ger  a  little  while  in  his  memory,  and  then  be  gone. 
He  wondered  how  far  in  the  coming  centuries  he 
should  remember  this  wedding  of  his  sister  Rose  ;  per 
haps  he  would  meet,  five  hundred  years  hence,  some 
descendant  of  the  marriage,  —  a  fair  girl,  bearing  the 
traits  of  his  sister's  fresh  beauty ;  a  young  man,  re 
calling  the  strength  and  manly  comeliness  of  Robert 
Hagburn,  —  and  could  claim  acquaintance  and  kin 
dred.  He  would  be  the  guardian,  from  generation  to 
generation,  of  this  race  ;  their  ever-reappearing  friend 
at  times  of  need  ;  and  meeting  them  from  age  to  age, 
would  find  traditions  of  himself  growing  poetical  in 
the  lapse  of  time  ;  so  that  he  would  smile  at  seeing  his 
features  look  so  much  more  majestic  in  their  fancies 
than  in  reality.  So  all  along  their  course,  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  family,  he  would  trace  himself,  and  by  his 
traditions  he  would  make  them  acquainted  with  all 
their  ancestors,  and  so  still  be  warmed  by  kindred 
blood. 

And  Robert  Hagburn,  full  of  the  life  of  the  mo 
ment,  warm  with  generous  blood,  came  in  a  new  uni 
form,  looking  fit  to  be  the  founder  of  a  race  who 
should  look  back  to  a  hero  sire.  He  greeted  Septim- 
ius  as  a  brother.  The  minister,  too,  came,  of  course, 
and  mingled  with  the  throng,  with  decorous  aspect, 
and  greeted  Septimius  with  more  formality  than  he 
had  been  wont ;  for  Septimius  had  insensibly  with 
drawn  himself  from  the  minister's  intimacy,  as  he  got 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  415 

deeper  and  deeper  into  the  enthusiasm  of  his  own 
cause.  Besides,  the  minister  did  not  fail  to  see  that 
his  once  devoted  scholar  had  contracted  habits  of 
study  into  the  secrets  of  which  he  himself  was  not 
admitted,  and  that  he  no  longer  alluded  to  studies  for 
the  ministry  ;  and  he  was  inclined  to  suspect  that  Sep- 
timius  had  unfortunately  allowed  infidel  ideas  to  as 
sail,  at  least,  if  not  to  overcome,  that  fortress  of  firm 
faith,  which  he  had  striven  to  found  and  strengthen 

o 

in  his  mind,  —  a  misfortune  frequently  befalling  spec 
ulative  and  imaginative  and  melancholic  persons,  like 
Septimius,  whom  the  Devil  is  all  the  time  planning  to 
assault,  because  he  feels  confident  of  having  a  traitor 
in  the  garrison.  The  minister  had  heard  that  this 
was  the  fashion  of  Septimius's  family,  and  that  even 
the  famous  divine,  who,  in  his  eyes,  was  the  glory  of 
it,  had  had  his  season  of  wild  infidelity  in  his  youth, 
before  grace  touched  him  ;  and  had  always  thereafter, 
throughout  his  long  and  pious  life,  been  subject  to 
seasons  of  black  and  sulphurous  despondency,  during 
which  he  disbelieved  the  faith  which,  at  other  times, 
he  preached  powerfully." 

"  Septimius,  my  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  are  you 
yet  ready  to  be  a  preacher  of  the  truth?  " 

"  Not  yet,  reverend  pastor,"  said  Septimius,  smiling 
at  the  thought  of  the  day  before,  that  the  career  of  a 
prophet  would  be  one  that  he  should  some  time  as 
sume.  "  There  will  be  time  enough  to  preach  the 
truth  when  I  better  know  it." 

"  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  knew  it  so  well  as  for 
merly,  instead  of  better,"  said  his  reverend  friend, 
looking  into  the  deep  furrows  of  his  brow,  and  into  his 
wild  and  troubled  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Septimius.  "  There  is  time 
yet." 


416  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

These  few  words  passed  amid  the  bustle  and  mur 
mur  of  the  evening,  while  the  guests  were  assembling, 
and  all  were  awaiting  the  marriage  with  that  interest 
which  the  event  continually  brings  with  it,  common  as 
it  is,  so  that  nothing  but  death  is  commoner.  Every 
body  congratulated  the  modest  Rose,  who  looked  quiet 
and  happy ;  and  so  she  stood  up  at  the  proper  time, 
and  the  minister  married  them  with  a  certain  fervor 
and  individual  application,  that  made  them  feel  they 
were  married  indeed.  Then  there  ensued  a  salutation 
of  the  bride,  the  first  to  kiss  her  being  the  minister, 
and  then  some  respectable  old  justices  and  farmers, 
each  with  his  friendly  smile  and  joke.  Then  went 
round  the  cake  and  wine,  and  other  good  cheer,  and 
the  hereditary  jokes  with  which  brides  used  to  be  as 
sailed  in  those  days.  I  think,  too,  there  was  a  dance, 
though  how  the  couples  in  the  reel  found  space  to  foot 
it  in  the  little  room,  I  cannot  imagine  ;  at  any  rate, 
there  was  a  bright  light  out  of  the  windows,  gleaming 
across  the  road,  and  such  a  sound  of  the  babble  of  nu 
merous  voices  and  merriment,  that  travellers  passing 
by,  on  the  lonely  Lexington  road,  wished  they  were  of 
the  party  ;  and  one  or  two  of  them  stopped  and  went 
in,  and  saw  the  new-made  bride,  drank  to  her  health, 
and -took  a  piece  of  the  wedding-cake  home  to  dream 
upon. 

[It  is  to  be  observed  that  Rose  had  requested  of  her 
friend,  Sibyl  Dacy,  to  act  as  one  of  her  bridesmaids, 
of  whom  she  had  only  the  modest  mimber  of  two  ; 
and  the  strange  girl  declined,  saying  that  her  inter 
meddling  would  bring  ill-fortune  to  the  marriage.'] 

"  Why  do  you  talk  such  nonsense,  Sibyl  ?  "  asked 
Rose.  "  You  love  me,  I  am  sure,  and  wish  me  well ; 
and  your  smile,  such  as  it  is,  will  be  the  promise  of 
prosperity,  and  I  wish  for  it  on  my  wedding-day." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  417 

"I  am  an  ill-fate,  a  sinister  demon,  Rose;  a  thing 
that  has  sprung  out  of  a  grave  ;  and  you  had  better 
not  entreat  me  to  twine  my  poison  tendrils  round  your 
destinies.  You  would  repent  it." 

"  Oh,  hush,  hush !  "  said  Rose,  putting  her  hand  over 
her  friend's  mouth.  "  Naughty  one !  you  can  bless  me, 
if  you  will,  only  you  are  wayward." 

"  Bless  you,  then,  dearest  Rose,  and  all  happiness 
on  your  marriage  !  " 

Septimius  had  been  duly  present  at  the  marriage, 
and  kissed  his  sister  with  moist  eyes,  it  is  said,  and  a 
solemn  smile,  as  he  gave  her  into  the  keeping  of  Rob 
ert  Hagburn  ;  and  there  was  something  in  the  words 
he  then  used  that  afterwards  dwelt  on  her  mind,  as  if 
they  had  a  meaning  in  them  that  asked  to  be  sought 
into,  and  needed  reply. 

"  There,  Rose,"  he  had  said,  "  I  have  made  myself 
ready  for  my  destiny.  I  have  no  ties  any  more,  and 
may  set  forth  on  my  path  without  scruple." 

"  Am  I  not  your  sister  still,  Septimius  ?  "  said  she, 
shedding  a  tear  or  two. 

"  A  married  woman  is  no  sister ;  nothing  but  a  mar 
ried  woman  till  she  becomes  a  mother;  and  then  what 
shall  I  have  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  eagerness  to  prove  his  case, 
which  Rose  could  not  understand,  but  which  was  prob 
ably  to  justify  himself  in  severing,  as  he  was  about 
to  do,  the  link  that  connected  him  with  his  race,  and 
making  for  himself  an  exceptional  destiny,  which,  if 
it  did  not  entirely  insulate  him,  would  at  least  create 
new  relations  with  all.  There  he  stood,  poor  fellow, 
looking  on  the  mirthful  throng,  not  in  exultation,  as 
might  have  been  supposed,  but  with  a  strange  sadness 
upon  him.  It  seemed  to  him,  at  that  final  moment, 

VOL.  xi.  27 


418  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

as  if  it  were  Death  that  linked  together  all ;  yes,  and 
so  gave  the  warmth  to  all.  Wedlock  itself  seemed  a 
brother  of  Death  ;  wedlock,  and  its  sweetest  hopes,  its 
holy  companionship,  its  mysteries,  and  all  that  warm 
mysterious  brotherhood  that  is  between  men ;  passing 
as  they  do  from  mystery  to  mystery  in  a  little  gleam 
of  light;  that  wild,  sweet  charm  of  uncertainty  and 
temporariness,  —  how  lovely  it  made  them  all,  how  in 
nocent,  even  the  worst  of  them  ;  how  hard  and  prosaic 
was  his  own  situation  in  comparison  to  theirs.  He 
felt  a  gushing  tenderness  for  them,  as  if  he  would 
have  flung  aside  his  endless  life,  and  rushed  among 
them,  saying,  — 

"  Embrace  me !  I  am  still  one  of  you,  and  will  not 
leave  you  !  Hold  me  fast !  " 

After  this  it  was  not  particularly  observed  that  both 
Septimius  and  Sibyl  Dacy  had  disappeared  from  the 
party,  which,  however,  went  on  no  less  merrily  with 
out  them.  In  truth,  the  habits  of  Sibyl  Dacy  were  so 
wayward,  and  little  squared  by  general  rules,  that  no 
body  wondered  or  tried  to  account  for  them ;  and  as 
for  Septimius,  he  was  such  a  studious  man,  so  little 
accustomed  to  mingle  with  his  fellow-citizens  on  any 
occasion,  that  it  was  rather  wondered  at  that  he  should 
have  spent  so  large  a  part  of  a  sociable  evening  with 
them,  than  that  he  should  now  retire. 

After  they  were  gone  the  party  received  an  unex 
pected  addition,  being  no  other  than  the  excellent 
Doctor  Portsoaken,  who  came  to  the  door,  announcing 
that  he  had  just  arrived  on  horseback  from  Boston, 
and  that,  his  object  being  to  have  an  interview  with 
Sibyl  Dacy,  he  had  been  to  Robert  Hagburn's  house 
in  quest  of  her;  but,  learning  from  the  old  grand 
mother  that  she  was  here,  he  had  followed. 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  419 

Not  finding  her,  he  evinced  no  alarm,  but  was  eas 
ily  induced  to  sit  down  among  the  merry  company, 
and  partake  of  some  brandy,  which,  with  other  liquors. 
Robert  had  provided  in  sufficient  abundance ;  and 
that  being*  a  day  when  man  had  not  learned  to  fear 
the  glass,  the  doctor  found  them  all  in  a  state  of  hi 
larious  chat.  Taking  out  his  German  pipe,  he  joined 
the  group  of  smokers  in  the  great  chimney-corner,  and 
entered  into  conversation  with  them,  laughing  and 
joking,  and  mixing  up  his  jests  with  that  mysterious 
suspicion  which  gave  so  strange  a  character  to  his  in 
tercourse. 

"  It  is  good  fortune,  Mr.  Hagburn,"  quoth  he, 
"  that  brings  me  here  on  this  auspicious  day.  And 
how  has  been  my  learned  young  friend  Dr.  Septimius, 

—  for  so  he  should  be  called,  —  and  how  have  flour 
ished  his  studies  of  late  ?     The  scientific  world  may 
look  for  great  fruits  from  that  decoction  of  his." 

"  He  '11  never  equal  Aunt  Keziah  for  herb-drinks," 
said  an  old  woman,  smoking  her  pipe  in  the  corner, 
4k  though  I  think  likely  he  '11  make  a  good  doctor 
enough  by  and  by.  Poor  Kezzy,  she  took  a  drop  too 
much  of  her  mixture,  after  all.  I  used  to  tell  her  how 
it  would  be  ;  for  Kezzy  and  I  were  pretty  good  friends 
once,  before  the  Indian  in  her  came  out  so  strongly, 

—  the  squaw  and  the  witch,  for  she  had  them  both  in 
her  blood,  poor  yellow  Kezzy !  " 

"  Yes  !  had  she  indeed  ?  "  quoth  the  doctor  ;  ''-  and 
I  have  heard  an  odd  story,  that  if  the  Feltons  chose  to 
go  back  to  the  old  country,  they  'd  find  a  home  and  an 
estate  there  ready  for  them." 

The  old  woman  mused,  and  puffed  at  her  pipe. 
"  Ah,  yes,"  muttered  she,  at  length,  "  I  remember  to 
have  heard  something  about  that ;  and  how,  if  Felton 


420  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

chose  to  strike  into  the  woods,  he  'd  find  a  tribe  of  wild 
Indians  there  ready  to  take  him  for  their  sagamore, 
and  conquer  the  whites  ;  and  how,  if  he  chose  to  go  to 
England,  there  was  a  great  old  house  all  ready  for 
him,  and  a  fire  burning  in  the  hall,  and  a  dinner-table 
spread,  and  the  tall  -  posted  bed  ready,  with  clean 
sheets,  in  the  best  chamber,  and  a  man  waiting  at  the 
gate  to  show  him  in.  Only  there  was  a  spell  of  a 
bloody  footstep  left  on  the  threshold  by  the  last  that 
came  out,  so  that  none  of  his  posterity  could  ever  cross 
it  again.  But  that  was  all  nonsense  !  " 

"  Strange  old  things  one  dreams  in  a  chimney-cor 
ner,"  quoth  the  doctor.  "  Do  you  remember  any  more 
of  this  ?  " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  'm  so  forgetful  nowadays,"  said  old  Mrs. 
Hagburn  ;  "  only  it  seems  as  if  I  had  my  memories 
in  my  pipe,  and  they  curl  up  in  smoke.  I  Ve  known 
these  Feltons  all  along,  or  it  seems  as  if  I  had  ;  for 
I'm  nigh  ninety  years  old  now,  and  I  was  two  year 
old  in  the  witch's  time,  and  I  have  seen  a  piece  of  the 
halter  that  old  Felton  was  hung  with." 

Some  of  the  company  laughed. 

"  That  must  have  been  a  curious  sight,"  quoth  the 
doctor. 

"  It  is  not  well,"  said  the  minister  seriously  to  the 
doctor,  "  to  stir  up  these  old  remembrances,  making 
the  poor  old  lady  appear  absurd.  I  know  not  that 
she  need  to  be  ashamed  of  showing  the  weaknesses  of 
the  generation  to  which  she  belonged ;  but  I  do  not 
like  to  see  old  age  put  at  this  disadvantage  among  the 
young." 

"  Nay,  my  good  and  reverend  sir,"  returned  the  doc 
tor,  "  I  mean  no  such  disrespect  as  you  seem  to  think. 
Forbid  it,  ye  upper  powers,  that  I  should  cast  any  rid- 


SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON.  421 

icule  on  beliefs,  —  superstitions,  do  you  call  them?  — 
that  are  as  worthy  of  faith,  for  aught  I  know,  as  any 
that  are  preached  in  the  pulpit.  If  the  old  lady  would 
tell  me  any  secret  of  the  old  Felton's  science,  I  shall 
treasure  it  sacredly ;  for  I  interpret  these  stories  about 
his  miraculous  gifts  as  meaning  that  he  had  a  great 
command  over  natural  science,  the  virtues  of  plants, 
the  capacities  of  the  human  body." 

While  these  things  were  passing,  or  before  they 
passed,  or  some  time  in  that  eventful  night,  Septimius 
had  withdrawn  to  his  study,  when  there  was  a  low  tap 
at  the  door,  and,  opening  it,  Sibyl  Dacy  stood  before 
him.  It  seemed  as  if  there  had  been  a  previous  ar 
rangement  between  them  ;  for  Septimius  evinced  no 
surprise,  only  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  in. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Noth 
ing  is  so  cold,  except  it  be  the  potent  medicine.  It 
makes  me  shiver." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Sibyl.  "  You  look  fright 
ened  at  me." 

"Do  I?"  said  Septimius.  "No,  not  that;  but 
this  is  such  a  crisis  ;  and  methinks  it  is  not  yourself. 
Your  eyes  glare  on  me  strangely." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  and  you  are  not  frightened  at  me  ? 
Well,  I  will  try  not  to  be  frightened  at  myself.  Time 
was,  however,  when  I  should  have  been." 

She  looked  round  at  Septimius's  study,  with  its  few 
old  books,  its  implements  of  science,  crucibles,  retorts, 
and  electrical  machines ;  all  these  she  noticed  little ; 
but  on  the  table  drawn  before  the  fire,  there  was  some 
thing  that  attracted  her  attention  ;  it  was  a  vase  that 
seemed  of  crystal,  made  in  that  old  fashion  in  which 
the  Venetians  made  their  glasses,  —  a  most  pure  kind 
of  glass,  with  a  long  stalk,  within  which  was  a  curved 


422  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

elaboration  of  fancy  -  work,  wreathed  and  twisted. 
This  old  glass  was  an  heirloom  of  the  Feltons,  a  relic 
that  had  come  down  with  many  traditions,  bringing  its 
frail  fabric  safely  through  all  the  perils  of  time,  that 
had  shattered  empires  ;  and,  if  space  sufficed,  I  could 
tell  many  stories  of  this  curious  vase,  which  was  said, 
in  its  time,  to  have  been  the  instrument  both  of  the 
Devil's  sacrament  in  the  forest,  and  of  the  Christian 
in  the  village  meeting-house.  But,  at  any  rate,  it  had 
been  a  part  of  the  choice  household  gear  of  one  of  Sep- 
timius's  ancestors,  and  was  engraved  with  his  arms, 
artistically  done. 

"  Is  that  the  drink  of  immortality?"  said  Sibyl. 

"  Yes,  Sibyl,"  said  Septimius.  "  Do  but  touch  the 
goblet ;  see  how  cold  it  is." 

She  put  her  slender,  pallid  fingers  on  the  side  of  the 
goblet,  and  shuddered,  just  as  Septimius  did  when  he 
touched  her  hand. 

"  Why  should  it  be  so  cold?"  said  she,  looking  at 
Septimius. 

"Nay,  I  know  not,  unless  because  endless  life  goes 
round  the  circle  and  meets  death,  and  is  just  the  same 
with  it.  O  Sibyl,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  that  I  have  ac 
complished  !  Do  you  not  feel  it  so  ?  What  if  this 
shiver  should  last  us  through  eternity  ?  " 

"  Have  you  pursued  this  object  so  long,"  said  Sibyl, 
"to  have  these  fears  respecting  it  now?  In  that  case, 
methinks  I  could  be  bold  enough  to  drink  it  alone, 
and  look  down  upon  you,  as  I  did  so,  smiling  at  your 
fear  to  take  the  life  offered  you." 

"  I  do  not  fear,"  said  Septimius ;  "  but  yet  I  ac 
knowledge  there  is  a  strange,  powerful  abhorrence  in 
me  towards  this  draught,  which  I  know  not  how  to  ac« 
count  for,  except  as  the  reaction,  the  revulsion  of  feel- 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  423 

ing,  consequent  upon  its  being  too  long  overstrained  in 
one  direction.  I  cannot  help  it.  The  meannesses,  the 
littlenesses,  the  perplexities,  the  general  irksomeness 
of  life,  weigh  upon  me  strangely.  Thou  didst  refuse 
to  drink  with  me.  That  being  the  case,  methinks  I 
could  break  the  jewelled  goblet  now,  untasted,  and 
choose  the  grave  as  the  wiser  part." 

"  The  beautiful  goblet !  What  a  pity  to  break  it ! " 
said  Sibyl,  with  her  characteristic  malign  and  myste 
rious  smile.  "  You  cannot  find  it  in  your  heart  to  do 
it." 

"  I  could,  —  I  can.  So  thou  wilt  not  drink  with 
me  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  ask  ?  "  said  Sibyl.  "  I  am 
a  being  that  sprung  up,  like  this  flower,  out  of  a 
grave ;  or,  at  least,  I  took  root  in  a  grave,  and,  grow 
ing  there,  have  twined  about  your  life,  until  you  can 
not  possibly  escape  from  me.  Ah,  Septimius  !  you 
know  me  not.  You  know  not  what  is  in  my  heart  to 
wards  you.  Do  you  remember  this  broken  miniature  ? 
would  you  wish  to  see  the  features  that  were  destroyed 
when  that  bullet  passed  ?  Then  look  at  mine  I  " 

"  Sibyl !  what  do  you  tell  me  ?  Was  it  you  —  were 
they  your  features  —  which  that  young  soldier  kissed 
as  he  lay  dying?  " 

"  They  were,"  said  Sibyl.  "  I  loved  him,  and  gave 
him  that  miniature,  and  the  face  they  represented.  I 
had  given  him  all.  and  you  slew  him." 

"  Then  you  hate  me,"  whispered  Septimius. 

4'  Do  you  call  it  hatred?"  asked  Sibyl,  smiling. 
"  Have  I  not  aided  you,  thought  with  you,  encouraged 
you,  heard  all  your  wild  ravings  when  you  dared  to 
tell  no  one  else  ?  kept  up  your  hopes ;  suggested ; 
helped  you  with  my  leger  dary  lore  to  useful  hints ; 


424  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

helped  you,  also,  in  other  ways,  which  you  do  not  sus 
pect  ?  And  now  you  ask  me  if  I  hate  you.  Does  this 
look  like  it?" 

"  No,"  said  Septimius.  "And  yet,  since  first  I  knew 
you,  there  has  been  something  whispering  me  of  harm, 
as  if  I  sat  near  some  mischief.  There  is  in  me  the 
wild,  natural  blood  of  the  Indian,  the  instinctive,  the 
animal  nature,  which  has  ways  of  warning  that  civil 
ized  life  polishes  away  and  cuts  out;  and  so,  Sibyl, 
never  did  I  approach  you,  but  there  were  reluctances, 
drawings  back,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  strong  im 
pulse  to  come  closest  to  you ;  and  to  that  I  yielded. 
But  why,  then,  knowing  that  in  this  grave  lay  the  man 
you  loved,  laid  there  by  my  hand,  —  why  did  you  aid 
rne  in  an  object  which  you  must  have  seen  was  the 
breath  of  my  life  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  —  my  enemy,  if  you  will  have  it 
so,  —  are  you  yet  to  learn  that  the  wish  of  a  man's  in 
most  heart  is  oftenest  that  by  which  he  is  ruined  and 
made  miserable  ?  But  listen  to  me,  Septimius.  No 
matter  for  my  earlier  life ;  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  tell  you  the  story,  and  confess  to  you  its  weak 
ness,  its  shame.  It  may  be,  I  had  more  cause  to  hate 
the  tenant  of  that  grave,  than  to  hate  you  who  uncon 
sciously  avenged  my  cause ;  nevertheless,  I  came  here 
in  hatred,  and  desire  of  revenge,  meaning  to  lie  in 
wait,  and  turn  your  dearest  desire  against  you,  to  eat 
into  your  life,  and  distil  poison  into  it,  I  sitting  on 
this  grave,  and  drawing  fresh  hatred  from  it ;  and  at 
last,  in  the  hour  of  your  triumph,  I  meant  to  make  the 
triumph  mine." 

"  Is  this  still  so?"  asked  Septimius,  with  pale  lips; 
( or  did  your  fell  purpose  change  ?  " 

"  Septimius,   I  am  weak,  —  a  weak,  weak  girl",  — 


ZEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  425 

only  a  girl,  Septimius  ;  only  eighteen  yet,"  exclaimed 
Sibyl.  "  It  is  young,  is  it  not  ?  I  might  be  forgiven 
much.  You  know  not  how  bitter  my  purpose  was  to 
you.  But  look,  Septimius,  —  could  it  be  worse  than 
this  ?  Hush,  be  still !  Do  not  stir  !  " 

She  lifted  the  beautiful  goblet  from  the  table,  put  it 
to  her  lips,  and  drank  a  deep  draught  from  it ;  then^ 
smiling  mockingly,  she  held  it  towards  him. 

"  See ;  I  have  made  myself  immortal  before  you. 
Will  you  drink?  " 

He  eagerly  held  out  his  hand  to  receive  the  goblet, 
but  Sibyl,  holding  it  beyond  his  reach  a  moment,  de 
liberately  let  it  fall  upon  the  hearth,  where  it  shiv 
ered  into  fragments,  and  the  bright,  cold  water  of  im 
mortality  was  all  spilt,  shedding  its  strange  fragrance 
around. 

"  Sibyl,  what  have  you  done  ?  "  cried  Septimius  in 
rage  and  horror. 

"  Be  quiet !  See  what  sort  of  immortality  I  win  by 
it,  - —  then,  if  you  like,  distil  your  drink  of  eternity 
again,  and  quaff  it." 

"  It  is  too  late,  Sibyl ;  it  was  a  happiness  that  may 
never  come  again  in  a  lifetime.  I  shall  perish  as  a 
dog  does.  It  is  too  late !  " 

"  Septimius,"  said  Sibyl,  who  looked  strangely  beau 
tiful,  as  if  the  drink,  giving  her  immortal  life,  had 
likewise  the  potency  to  give  immortal  beauty  answer 
ing  to  it,  "  listen  to  me.  You  have  not  learned  all 
the  secrets  that  lay  in  those  old  legends,  about  which 
we  have  talked  so  much.  There  were  two  recipes,  dis 
covered  or  learned  by  the  art  of  the  studious  old  Gas- 
par  Felton.  One  was  said  to  be  that  secret  of  immor 
tal  life  which  so  many  old  sages  sought  for,  and  which 
some  were  said  to  have  found ;  though,  if  that  were  the 


426  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

case,  it  is  strange  some  of  them  have  not  lived  till  our 
day.  Its  essence  lay  in  a  certain  rare  flower,  which, 
mingled  properly  with  other  ingredients  of  great  po 
tency  in  themselves,  though  still  lacking  the  crowning 
virtue  till  the  flower  was  supplied,  produced  the  drink 
of  immortality." 

"  Yes,  and  I  had  the  flower,  which  I  found  in  a 
grave,"  said  Septirnius,  "  and  distilled  the  drink  which 
you  have  spilt." 

"You  had  a  flower,  or  what  you  called  a  flower," 
said  the  girl.  "  But,  Septimius,  there  was  yet  another 
drink,  in  which  the  same  potent  ingredients  were  used ; 
all  but  the  last.  In  this,  instead  of  the  beautiful 
flower,  was  mingled  the  semblance  of  a  flower,  but 
really  a  baneful  growth  out  of  a  grave.  This  I  sowed 
there,  and  it  converted  the  drink  into  a  poison,  famous 
in  old  science,  —  a  poison  which  the  Borgias  used,  and 
Mary  de  Medicis,  —  and  which  has  brought  to  death 
many  a  famous  person,  when  it  was  desirable  to  his 
enemies.  This  is  the  drink  I  helped  you  to  distil.  It 
brings  on  death  with  pleasant  and  delightful  thrills  of 
the  nerves.  O  Septimius,  Septimius,  it  is  worth  while 
to  die,  to  be  so  blest,  so  exhilarated  as  I  am  now." 

"  Good  God,  Sibyl,  is  this  possible  ?  " 

"Even  so,  Septimius.  I  was  helped  by  that  old 
physician,  Doctor  Portsoaken,  who,  with  some  private 
purpose  of  his  own,  taught  me  what  to  do ;  for  he  was 
skilled  in  all  the  mysteries  of  those  old  physicians, 
and  knew  that  their  poisons  at  least  were  efficacious, 
whatever  their  drinks  of  immortality  might  be.  But 
the  end  has  not  turned  out  as  I  meant.  A  girl's  fancy 
is  so  shifting,  Septimius.  I  thought  I  loved  that  youth 
in  the  grave  yonder  ;  but  it  was  you  I  loved,  —  and  I 
am  dying.  Forgive  me  for  my  evil  purposes,  for  I  am 
dying." 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  427 

"  Why  hast  thou  spilt  the  drink  ?  "  said  Septimius, 
bending  his  dark  brows  upon  her,  and  frowning  over 
her.  "  We  might  have  died  together." 

"  No,  live,  Septimius,"  said  the  girl,  whose  face  ap 
peared  to  grow  bright  and  joyous,  as  if  the  drink  of 
death  exhilarated  her  like  an  intoxicating  fluid.  "  I 
would  not  let  you  have  it,  not  one  drop.  But  to 
think,"  and  here  she  laughed,  "  what  a  penance,  — 
what  months  of  wearisome  labor  thou  hast  had,  —  and 
what  thoughts,  what  dreams,  and  how  I  laughed  in  my 
sleeve  at  them  all  the  time  !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Then  thou 
didst  plan  out  future  ages,  and  talk  poetry  and  prose 
to  me.  Did  I  not  take  it  very  demurely,  and  answer 
thee  in  the  same  style  ?  and  so  thou  didst  love  me,  and 
kindly  didst  wish  to  take  me  with  thee  in  thy  immor 
tality.  O  Septimius,  I  should  have  liked  it  well ! 
Yes,  latterly,  only,  I  knew  how  the  case  stood.  Oh, 
how  I  surrounded  thee  with  dreams,  and  instead  of 
giving  thee  immortal  life,  so  kneaded  up  the  little  life 
allotted  thee  with  dreams  and  vaporing  stuff,  that  thou 
didst  not  really  live  even  that.  Ah,  it  was  a  pleasant 
pastime,  and  pleasant  is  now  the  end  of  it.  Kiss  me, 
thou  poor  Septimius,  one  kiss !  " 

\_Shegivestheridiculous  aspect  to  his  scheme,  in 
an  airy  way.^\ 

But  as  Septimius,  who  seemed  stunned,  instinctively 
bent  forward  to  obey  her,  she  drew  back.  "  No,  there 
shall  be  no  kiss  !  There  may  a  little  poison  linger  on 
my  lips.  Farewell !  Dost  thou  mean  still  to  seek  for 
thy  liquor  of  immortality  ?  —  ah,  ah  !  It  was  a  good 
jest.  We  will  laugh  at  it  when  we  meet  in  the  other 
world." 

And  here  poor  Sibyl  Daly's  laugh  grew  fainter,  and 
dying  away,  she  seemod  to  die  with  it ;  for  there  she 


428  SEPTIMIUS  FELTON. 

was,  with  that  mirthful,  half -malign  expression  still  on 
her  face,  but  motionless  ;  so  that  however  long  Sep* 
timius's  life  was  likely  to  be,  whether  a  few  years 
or  many  centuries,  he  would  still  have  her  image  in 
his  memory  so.  And  here  she  lay  among  his  broken 
hopes,  now  shattered  as  completely  as  the  goblet  which 
held  his  draught,  and  as  incapable  of  being  formed 
again. 

The  next  day,  as  Septimius  did  not  appear,  there 
was  research  for  him  on  the  part  of  Doctor  Portsoaken. 
His  room  was  found  empty,  the  bed  untouched.  Then 
they  sought  him  on  his  favorite  hill-top ;  but  neither 
was  he  found  there,  although  something  was  found 
that  added  to  the  wonder  and  alarm  of  his  disappear 
ance.  It  was  the  cold  form  of  Sibyl  Dacy,  which  was 
extended  on  the  hillock  so  often  mentioned,  with  her 
arms  thrown  over  it ;  but,  looking  in  the  dead  face, 
the  beholders  were  astonished  to  see  a  certain  malign 

o 

and  mirthful  expression,  as  if  some  airy  part  had  been 
played  out,  —  some  surprise,  some  practical  joke  of 
a  peculiarly  airy  kind  had  burst  with  fairy  shoots  of 
fire  among  the  company. 

"  Ah,  she  is  dead !  Poor  Sibyl  Dacy !  "  exclaimed 
Doctor  Portsoaken.  "  Her  scheme,  then,  has  turned 
out  amiss." 

This  exclamation  seemed  to  imply  some  knowledge 
of  the  mystery  ;  and  it  so  impressed  the  auditors, 
among  whom  was  Robert  Hagburn,  that  they  thought 
it  not  inexpedient  to  have  an  investigation  ;  so  the 
learned  doctor  was  not  uncivilly  taken  into  custody  and 
examined.  Several  interesting  particulars,  some  of 
which  throw  a  certain  degree  of  light  on  our  narrative, 
were  discovered.  For  instance,  that  Sibyl  Dacy,  who 


SEPTIMIUS  FELTON.  429 

was  a  niece  of  the  doctor,  had  been  beguiled  from  her 
home  and  led  over  the  sea  by  Cyril  Norton,  and  that 
the  doctor,  arriving  in  Boston  with  another  regiment, 
had  found  her  there,  after  her  lover's  death.  Here 
there  was  some  discrepancy  or  darkness  in  the  doctor's 
narrative.  He  appeared  to  have  consented  to,  or  in 
stigated  (for  it  was  not  quite  evident  how  far  his  con 
currence  had  gone)  this  poor  girl's  scheme  of  going 
and  brooding  over  her  lover's  grave,  and  living  in 
close  contiguity  with  the  man  who  had  slain  him.  The 
doctor  had  not  much  to  say  for  himself  on  this  point ; 
but  there  was  found  reason  to  believe  that  he  was  act 
ing  in  the  interest  of  some  English  claimant  of  a  great 
estate  that  was  left  without  an  apparent  heir  by  the 
death  of  Cyril  Norton,  and  there  was  even  a  suspicion 
that  he,  with  his  fantastic  science  and  antiquated  em 
piricism,  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  scheme  of  poi 
soning,  which  was  so  strangely  intertwined  with  Sep- 
timius's  notion,  in  which  he  went  so  nearly  crazed,  of 
a  drink  of  immortality.  It  was  observable,  however, 
that  the  doctor  —  such  a  humbug  in  scientific  matters, 
that  he  had  perhaps  bewildered  himself  —  seemed  to 
have  a  sort  of  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  the  recipe  which 
had  so  strangely  come  to  light,  provided  the  true 
flower  could  be  discovered  ;  but  that  flower,  according 
to  Doctor  Portsoaken,  had  not  been  seen  on  earth  for 
many  centuries,  and  was  banished  probably  forever. 
The  flower,  or  fungus,  which  Septimius  had  mistaken 
for  it,  was  a  sort  of  earthly  or  devilish  counterpart  of 
it,  and  was  greatly  in  request  among  the  old  poisoners 
for  its  admirable  uses  in  their  art.  In  fine,  no  tan 
gible  evidence  being  found  against  the  worthy  doc 
tor,  he  was  permitted  to  depart,  and  disappeared  from 
the  neighborhood,  to  the  scandal  of  many  people,  un- 


430  SEPTIMIUS  F ELTON. 

hanged ;  leaving  behind  him  few  available  effects  be« 
yond  the  web  and  empty  skin  of  an  enormous  spider. 

As  to  Septimius,  he  returned  no  more  to  his  cottage 
by  the  wayside,  and  none  undertook  to  tell  what  had 
become  of  him ;  crushed  and  annihilated,  as  it  were, 
by  the  failure  of  his  magnificent  and  most  absurd 
dreams.  Rumors  there  have  been,  however,  at  vari 
ous  times,  that  there  had  appeared  an  American  claim 
ant,  who  had  made  out  his  right  to  the  great  estate  of 
Smithell's  Hall,  and  had  dwelt  there,  and  left  poster 
ity,  and  that  in  the  subsequent  generation  an  ancient 
baronial  title  had  been  revived  in  favor  of  the  son  and 
heir  of  the  American.  Whether  this  was  our  Septim 
ius,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  should  be  rather  sorry  to  be 
lieve  that  after  such  splendid  schemes  as  he  had  enter 
tained,  he  should  have  been  content  to  settle  down  into 
the  fat  substance  and  reality  of  English  life,  and  die 
in  his  due  time,  and  be  buried  like  any  other  man. 

A  few  years  ago,  while  in  England,  I  visited  Smith- 
ell's  Hall,  and  was  entertained  there,  not  knowing  at 
the  time%that  I  could  claim  its  owner  as  my  country 
man  by  descent ;  though,  as  I  now  remember,  I  was 
struck  by  the  thin,  sallow,  American  cast  of  his  face, 
and  the  lithe  slenderness  of  his  figure,  and  seem  now 
(but  this  may  be  my  fancy)  to  recollect  a  certain 
Indian  glitter  of  the  eye  and  cast  of  feature. 

As  for  the  Bloody  Footstep,  I  saw  it  with  my  own 
eyes,  and  will  venture  to  suggest  that  it  was  a  mere 
natural  reddish  stain  in  the  stone,  converted  by  super- 
stition  into  a  Bloody  Footstep. 


APPENDIX. 

THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP- 


THE   ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP: 

OUTLINES   OF  AN  ENGLISH   ROMANCE. 

INTRODUCTORY    XOTE. 

"  SEPTTMIUS  FELTOX  "  was  the  outgrowth  of  a  project, 
formed  by  'Hawthorne  during  his  residence  in  England,  of 
writing  a  romance,  the  scene  of  which  shoidd  be  laid  in  that 
country;  but  this  project  was  afterwards  abandoned,  giv 
ing  place  to  a  new  conception  in  which  the  visionary  search 
for  means  to  secure  an  earthly  immortality  was  to  form  the 
principal  interest.  The  new  conception  took  shape  in  the 
uncompleted  "'  Dolliver  Romance."  The  two  themes,  of 
course,  were  distinct,  but,  by  a  curious  process  of  thought, 
one  grew  directly  out  of  the  other  :  the  whole  history  con 
stitutes,  in  fact,  a  chapter  in  what  may  be  called  the  gene 
alogy  of  a  romance.  There  remained,  after  "  Septimius 
Felton  "  had  been  published,  certain  manuscripts  connected 
with  the  scheme  of  an  English  story.  One  of  these  manu 
scripts  was  written  in  the  form  of  a  journalized  narrative ; 
the  author  merely  noting  the  date  of  what  he  wrote,  as  he 
went  along.  The  other  was  a  more  extended  sketch,  of 
much  greater  bulk,  and  without  date,  but  probably  pro 
duced  several  years  later.  It  was  not  originally  intended 
by  those  who  at  the  time  had  charge  of  Hawthorne's  pa 
pers  that  either  of  these  incomplete  writings  should  be  laid 
before  the  public  ;  because  they  manifestly  had  not  been  left 
by  him  in  a  form  which  he  would  have  considered  as  war 
ranting  such  a  course.  But  since  the  second  and  larger 
manuscript  has  been  published  under  the  title  of  "  Dr. 
Grimshawe's  Secret,"  it  has  been  thought  best  to  issue  the 

present  sketch,  so  that  the  two  documents  may  be  examined 
VOL.  xi.  28 


434  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

together.  Their  appearance  places  in  the  hands  of  readers 
the  entire  process  of  development  leading  to  the  "  Septim- 
ius  "  and  "  The  Dolliver  Romance."  They  speak  for  them 
selves  much  more  efficiently  than  any  commentator  can  ex 
pect  to  do ;  and  little,  therefore,  remains  to  be  said  beyond 
a  few  words  of  explanation  in  regard  to  the  following 
pages. 

The  Note-Books  show  that  the  plan  of  an  English  ro 
mance,  turning  upon  the  fact  that  an  emigrant  to  America 
had  carried  away  a  family  secret  which  should  give  his  de 
scendant  the  power  to  ruin  the  family  in  the  mother  country, 
had  occurred  to  Hawthorne  as  early  as  April,  1855.  In 
August  of  the  same  year  he  visited  Smithell's  Hall,  in  Boltoii 
le  Moors,  concerning  which  he  had  already  heard  its  legend 
of  (k  The  Bloody  Footstep,"  and  from  that  time  on,  the  idea 
of  this  footprint  on  the  threshold-stone  of  the  ancestral 
mansion  seems  to  have  associated  itself  inextricably  with 
the  dreamy  substance  of  his  yet  unshaped  romance.  Indeed, 
it  leaves  its  mark  broadly  upon  Sibyl  Dacy's  wild  legend  in 
"  Septimius  Felton,"  and  reappears  in  the  last  paragraph 
of  that  story.  But,  so  far  as  we  can  know  at  this  day, 
nothing  definite  was  done  until  after  his  departure  for  Italy. 
It  was  then,  while  staying  in  Rome,  that  he  began  to  put 
upon  paper  that  plot  which  had  first  occupied  his  thoughts 
three  years  before,  in  the  scant  leisure  allowed  him  by  his 
duties  at  the  Liverpool  consulate.  Of  leisure  there  was  not 
a  great  deal  at  Rome,  either ;  for,  as  the  "  French  and  Ital 
ian  Note-Books  "  show,  sight-seeing  and  social  intercourse 
took  up  a  good  deal  of  his  time,  and  the  daily  record  in  his 
journal  likewise  had  to  be  kept  up.  But  he  set  to  work 
resolutely  to  embody,  so  far  as  he  might,  his  stray  imagin 
ings  upon  the  haunting  English  theme,  and  to  give  them 
connected  form.  April  1,  1858,  he  began  ;  and  then  nearly 
two  weeks  passed  before  he  found  an  opportunity  to  resume ; 
April  13th  being  the  date  of  the  next  passage.  By  May  he 
gets  fully  into  swing,  so  that  day  after  day,  with  but  slight 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  435 

breaks,  he  carries  on  the  story,  always  increasing  in  interest 
for  us  who  read  as  for  him  who  improvised.  Thus  it  con 
tinues  until  May  19th,  by  which  time  he  has  made  a  toler 
ably  complete  outline,  filled  in  with  a  good  deal  of  detail 
here  and  there.  Although  the  sketch  is  cast  in  the  form 
of  a  regular  narrative,  one  or  two  gaps  occur,  indicating 
that  the  author  had  thought  out  certain  points  which  he 
then  took  for  granted  without  making  note  of  them.  Brief 
scenes,  passages  of  conversation  and  of  narration,  follow 
one  another  after  the  manner  of  a  finished  story,  alter 
nating  with  synopses  of  the  plot,  and  queries  concerning 
particulars  that  needed  further  study ;  confidences  of  the 
romancer  to  himself  which  form  certainly  a  valuable  contri 
bution  to  literary  history.  The  manuscript  closes  with  a 
rapid  sketch  of  the  conclusion,  and  the  way  in  which  it  is  to 
be  executed.  Succinctly,  what  we  have  here  is  a  romance 
in  embryo  ;  one,  moreover,  that  never  attained  to  a  viable 
stature  and  constitution.  During  his  lifetime  it  naturally 
would  not  have  been  put  forward  as  demanding  public  at 
tention  ;  and,  in  consideration  of  that  fact,  it  has  since  been 
withheld  from  the  press  by  the  decision  of  his  daughter, 
in  whom  the  title  to  it  vests.  Students  of  literary  art, 
however,  and  many  more  general  readers  will,  I  think,  be 
likely  to  discover  in  it  a  charm  all  the  greater  for  its  being 
in  parts  only  indicated ;  since,  as  it  stands,  it  presents  the 
precise  condition  of  a  work  of  fiction  in  its  first  stage. 
The  unfinished  "  Grimshawe  "  was  another  development  of 
the  same  theme,  and  the  "  Septimius  "  a  later  sketch,  with 
a  new  element  introduced.  But  the  present  experimental 
fragment,  to  which  it  has  been  decided  to  give  the  title  of 
"  The  Ancestral  Footstep,"  possesses  a  freshness  and  spon 
taneity  recalling  the  peculiar  fascination  of  those  chalk  or 
pencil  outlines  with  which  great  masters  in  the  graphic  art 
have  been  wont  to  arrest  their  fleeting  glimpses  of  a  com 
position  still  unwrought. 

It  would  not  be  safe  to  conclude,  from  the  large  amount 


436  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

of  preliminary  writing  done  with  a  view  to  that  romance, 
that  Hawthorne  always  adopted  this  laborious  mode  of 
making  several  drafts  of  a  book.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
understood  that  his  habit  was  to  mature  a  design  so  thor 
oughly  in  his  mind  before  attempting  to  give  it  actual  ex 
istence  on  paper  that  but  little  rewriting  was  needed.  The 
circumstance  that  he  was  obliged  to  write  so  much  that 
did  not  satisfy  him  in  this  case  may  account  partly  for  his 
relinquishing  the  theme,  as  one  which  for  him  had  lost  its 
seductiveness  through  too  much  recasting. 

It  need  be  added  only  that  the  original  manuscript,  from 
which  the  following  pages  are  printed  through  the  medium 
of  an  exact  copy,  is  singularly  clear  and  fluent.  Not  a  sin 
gle  correction  occurs  throughout ;  but  here  and  there  a  word 
is  omitted,  obviously  by  mere  accident,  and  these  omissions 
have  been  supplied.  The  correction  in  each  case  is  marked 
by  brackets,  in  this  printed  reproduction.  The  sketch  be 
gins  abruptly ;  but  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  any 
thing  preceded  it  except  the  unrecorded  musings  in  the 
author's  mind,  and  one  or  two  memoranda  in  the  "  English 
Note-Books."  We  must  therefore  imagine  the  central  fig 
ure,  Middleton,  who  is  the  American  descendant  of  an  old 
English  family,  as  having  been  properly  introduced,  and 
then  pass  at  once  to  the  opening  sentences.  The  rest  will 
explain  itself.  G.  P.  L. 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP. 

OUTLINES  OF  AN  ENGLISH  ROMANCE. 


APRIL  1, 1858.  Thursday. — He  had  now  been  travelling 
long  in  those  rich  portions  of  England  where  he  would  most 
have  wished  to  find  the  object  of  his  pursuit ;  and  many  had 
been  the  scenes  which  he  would  willingly  have  identified 
with  that  mentioned  in  the  ancient,  time-yellowed  record 
which  he  bore  about  with  him.  It  is  to  be  observed  that, 
undertaken  at  first  half  as  the  amusement,  the  unreal  ob 
ject,  of  a  grown  man's  play-day,  it  had  become  more  and 
more  real  to  him  with  every  step  of  the  way  that  he  fol 
lowed  it  up  ;  along  those  green  English  lanes  it  seemed  as 
if  everything  would  bring  him  close  to  the  mansion  that  he 
sought ;  every  morning  he  went  on  with  renewed  hopes,  nor 
did  the  evening,  though  it  brought  with  it  no  success,  bring 
with  it  the  gloom  and  heaviness  of  a  real  disappointment. 
In  all  his  life,  including  its  earliest  and  happiest  days,  he 
had  never  known  such  a  spring  and  zest  as  now  filled  his 
veins,  and  gave  lightsomeness  to  his  limbs ;  this  spirit  gave 
to  the  beautiful  country  which  he  trod  a  still  richer  beauty 
than  it  had  ever  borne,  and  he  sought  his  ancient  home  as  if 
he  had  found  his  way  into  Paradise  and  were  there  endeav 
oring  to  trace  out  the  sight  [site]  of  Eve's  bridal  bower,  the 
birthplace  of  the  human  race  and  its  glorious  possibilities  of 
happiness  and  high  performance. 

In  these  sweet  and  delightful  moods  of  mind,  varying 
from  one  dream  to  another,  he  loved  indeed  the  solitude  of 
his  way  ;  but  likewise  he  loved  the  facility  which  his  pursuit 
afforded  him,  of  coming  in  contact  with  many  varieties  of 


438  APPENDIX. 

men,  and  he  took  advantage  of  this  facility  to  an  extent 
which  it  was  not  usually  his  impulse  to  do.  But  now  he 
came  forth  from  all  reserves,  and  offered  himself  to  whom 
ever  the  chances  of  the  way  offered  to  him,  with  a  ready 
sensibility  that  made  its  way  through  every  barrier  that  even 
English  exclusiveness,  in  whatever  rank  of  life,  could  set 
up.  The  plastic  character  of  Middleton  was  perhaps  a  va 
riety  of  American  nature  only  presenting  itself  under  an 
individual  form ;  he  could  throw  off  the  man  of  our  day, 
and  put  on  a  ruder  nature,  but  then  it  was  with  a  certain 
fineness,  that  made  this  only  [a]  distinction  between  it  and 
the  central  truth.  He  found  less  variety  of  form  in  the  Eng 
lish  character  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to  see  at  home ; 
but  perhaps  this  was  in  consequence  of  the  external  nature 
of  his  acquaintance  with  it ;  for  the  view  of  one  well  accus 
tomed  to  a  people,  and  of  a  stranger  to  them,  differs  in  this 
—  that  the  latter  sees  the  homogeneity,  the  one  universal 
character,  the  groundwork  of  the  whole,  while  the  former 
sees  a  thousand  little  differences,  which  distinguish  the  indi 
vidual  men  apart,  to  such  a  degree  that  they  seem  hardly  to 
have  any  resemblance  among  themselves. 

But  just  at  the  period  of  his  journey  when  we  take  him 
up,  Middleton  had  been  for  two  or  three  days  the  compan 
ion  of  an  old  man  who  interested  him  more  than  most  of 
his  wayside  companions  ;  the  more  especially  as  he  seemed 
to  be  wandering  without  an  object,  or  with  such  a  dreamy 
object  as  that  which  led  Middleton's  own  steps  onward.  He 
was  a  plain  old  man  enough,  but  with  a  pale,  strong-featured 
face  and  white  hair,  a  certain  picturesqueness  and  venerable- 
ness,  which  Middleton  fancied  might  have  befitted  a  richer 
garb  than  he  now  wore.  In  much  of  their  conversation, 
too,  he  was  sensible  that,  though  the  stranger  betrayed  no 
acquaintance  with  literature,  nor  seemed  to  have  conversed 
with,  cultivated  minds,  yet  the  results  of  such  acquaintance 
and  converse  were  here.  Middleton  was  inclined  to  think 
him,  however,  an  old  man,  one  of  those  itinerants,  such  as 


THE  ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP.  439 

Wordsworth  represented  in  the  "  Excursion."  who  smooth 
themselves  by  the  attrition  of  the  world  and  gain  a  knowl 
edge  equivalent  to  or  better  than  that  of  books  from  the 
actual  intellect  of  man  awake  and  active  around  them. 

Often,  during  the  short  period  since  their  companionship 
originated.  Middleton  had  felt  impelled  to  disclose  to  the 
old  man  the  object  of  his  journey,  and  the  wild  tale  by 
which,  after  two  hundred  years,  he  had  been  blown  as  it 
were  across  the  ocean,  and  drawn  onward  to  commence  this 
search.  The  old  man's  ordinary  conversation  was  of  a  na 
ture  to  draw  forth  such  a  confidence  as  this  ;  frequently 
turning  on  the  traditions  of  the  wayside  ;  the  reminiscences 
that  lingered  on  the  battle-fields  of  the  Roses,  or  of  the 
Parliament,  like  flowers  nurtured  by  the  blood  of  the  slain, 
and  prolonging  their  race  through  the  centuries  for  the  way 
farer  to  pluck  them  ;  or  the  family  histories  of  the  castles, 
manor-houses,  and  seats  which,  of  various  epochs,  had  their 
park-gates  along  the  roadside  and  would  be  seen  with  dark 
gray  towers  or  ancient  gables,  or  more  modern  forms  of 
architecture,  rising  up  among  clouds  of  ancient  oaks.  Mid 
dleton  watched  earnestly  to  see  if,  in  any  of  these  tales, 
there  were  circumstances  resembling  those  striking  and  sin 
gular  ones  which  he  had  borne  so  long  in  his  memory,  and 
on  which  he  was  now  acting  in  so  strange  a  manner  ;  but 
[though]  there  was  a  good  deal  of  variety  of  incident  in 
them,  there  never  was  any  combination  of  incidents  having 
the  peculiarity  of  this. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he  to  the  old  man,  "  the  settlers  in  my 
country  may  have  carried  away  with  them  traditions  long 
since  forgotten  in  this  country,  but  which  might  have  an 
interest  and  connection,  and  might  even  piece  out  the  broken 
relics  of  family  history,  which  have  remained  perhaps  a  mys 
tery  for  hundreds  of  years.  I  can  conceive,  even,  that  this 
might  be  of  importance  in  settling  the  heirships  of  estates ; 
but  which  now,  only  the  two  insulated  parts  of  the  story  be 
ing  known,  remain  a  riddle,  although  the  solution  of  it  is 


440  APPENDIX. 

actually  in  the  world,  if  only  these  two  parts  could  be  united 
across  the  sea,  like  the  wires  of  an  electric  telegraph." 

"  It  is  an  impressive  idea,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Do  you 
know  any  such  tradition  as  you  have  hinted  at  ?  " 

April  13th.  —  Middleton  could  not  but  wonder  at  the  sin 
gular  chance  that  had  established  him  in  such  a  place,  and 
in  such  society,  so  strangely  adapted  to  the  purposes  wit!/ 
which  he  had  been  wandering  through  England.  He  had 
come  hither,  hoping  as  it  were  to  find  the  past  still  alive 
and  in  action ;  and  here  it  was  so  in  this  one  only  spot,  and 
these  few  persons  into  the  midst  of  whom  he  had  suddenly 
been  cast.  With  these  reflections  he  looked  forth  from  his 
window  into  the  old-fashioned  garden,  and  at  the  stone  sun 
dial,  which  had  numbered  all  the  hours  —  all  the  daylight 
and  serene  ones,  at  least  —  since  his  mysterious  ancestor  left 
the  country.  And  [is]  this,  then,  he  thought  to  himself, 
the  establishment  of  which  some  rumor  had  been  preserved  ? 
Was  it  here  that  the  secret  had  its  hiding-place  in  the  old 
coffer,  in  the  cupboard,  in  the  secret  chamber,  or  whatever 
was  indicated  by  the  apparently  idle  words  of  the  document 
which  he  had  preserved  ?  He  still  smiled  at  the  idea,  but  it 
was  with  a  pleasant,  mysterious  sense  that  his  life  had  at 
last  got  out  of  the  dusty  real,  and  that  strangeness  had 
mixed  itself  up  with  his  daily  experience. 

With  such  feelings  he  prepared  himself  to  go  down  to 
dinner  with  his  host.  He  found  him  alone  at  table,  which 
was  placed  in  a  dark  old  room  modernized  with  every  Eng 
lish  comfort  and  the  pleasant  spectacle  of  a  table  set  with 
the  whitest  of  napery  and  the  brightest  of  glass  and  china. 
The  friendly  old  gentleman,  as  he  had  found  him  from  the 
first,  became  doubly  and  trebly  so  in  that  position  which 
brings  out  whatever  warmth  of  heart  an  Englishman  has, 
and  gives  it  to  him  if  he  has  none.  The  impressionable  and 
sympathetic  character  of  Middleton  answered  to  the  kind 
ness  of  his  host ;  and  by  the  time  the  meal  was  concluded, 
the  two  were  conversing  with  almost  as  much  zest  and 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  441 

friendship  as  if  they  were  similar  in  age,  even  fellow-coun 
trymen,  and  had  known  one  another  all  their  life-time. 
Middleton's  secret,  it  may  be  supposed,  came  often  to  the 
tip  of  his  tongue  ;  but  still  he  kept  it  within,  from  a  nat 
ural  repugnance  to  bring  out  the  one  romance  of  his  life. 
The-  talk,  however,  necessarily  ran  much  upon  topics  among 
which  this  one  would  have  come  in  without  any  extra  at 
tempt  to  introduce  it. 

"  This  decay  of  old  families,"  said  the  Master,  "  is  much 
greater  than  would  appear  on  the  surface  of  things.  We 
have  such  a  reluctance  to  part  with  them,  that  we  are  con 
tent  to  see  them  continued  by  any  fiction,  through  any  indi 
rections,  rather  than  to  dispense  with  old  names.  In  your 
country,  I  suppose,  there  is  no  such  reluctance;  you  are 
willing  that  one  generation  should  blot  out  all  that  preceded 
it,  and  be  itself  the  newest  and  only  age  of  the  world." 

"  Not  quite  so,"  answered  Middleton  ;  "  at  any  rate,  if 
there  be  such  a  feeling  in  the  people  at  large,  I  doubt 
whether,  even  in  England,  those  who  fancy  themselves  pos 
sessed  of  claims  to  birth,  cherish  them  more  as  a  treasure 
than  we  do.  It  is,  of  course,  a  thousand  times  more  difficult 
for  us  to  keep  alive  a  name  amid  a  thousand  difficulties  sed 
ulously  thrown  around  it  by  our  institutions,  than  for  you  to 
do,  where  your  institutions  are  anxiously  calculated  to  pro 
mote  the  contrary  purpose.  It  has  occasionally  struck  me, 
however,  that  the  ancient  lineage  might  often  be  found  in 
America,  for  a  family  which  has  been  compelled  to  prolong 
itself  here  through  the  female  line,  and  through  alien  stocks." 

"  Indeed,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  Master,  "if  that  be 
the  case,  I  should  like  to  [speak  ?]  further  with  you  upon  it ; 
for,  I  can  assure  you,  there  are  sometimes  vicissitudes  in  old 
families  that  make  me  grieve  to  think  that  a  man  cannot  be 
made  for  the  occasion." 

All  this  while,  the  young  lady  at  table  had  remained  al 
most  silent ;  and  Middleton  had  only  occasionally  been  re 
minded  of  her  by  the  necessity  of  performing  some  of  those 


442  APPENDIX. 

offices  which  put  people  at  table  under  a  Christian  necessity 
of  recognizing  one  another.  He  was,  to  say  the  truth,  some 
what  interested  in  her,  yet  not  strongly  attracted  by  the 
neutral  tint  of  her  dress,  and  the  neutral  character  of  her 
manners.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  handsome,  although,  with 
her  face  full  before  him,  he  had  not  quite  made  up  his  mind 
on  this  point. 

April  14£A.  —  So  here  was  Middleton,  now  at  length  see 
ing  indistinctly  a  thread,  to  which  the  thread  that  he  had  so 
long  held  in  his  hand — the  hereditary  thread  that  ancestor 
after  ancestor  had  handed  down  —  might  seem  ready  to  join 
on.  He  felt  as  if  they  were  the  two  points  of  an  electric 
chain,  which  being  joined,  an  instantaneous  effect  must  fol 
low.  Earnestly,  as  he  would  have  looked  forward  to  this 
moment  (had  he  in  sober  reason  ever  put  any  real  weight 
on  the  fantasy  in  pursuit  of  which  he  had  wandered  so  far) 
he  now,  that  it  actually  appeared  to  be  realizing  itself, 
paused  with  a  vague  sensation  of  alarm.  The  mystery  was 
evidently  one  of  sorrow,  if  not  of  crime,  and  he  felt  as  if 
that  sorrow  and  crime  might  not  have  been  annihilated  even 
by  being  buried  out  of  human  sight  and  remembrance  so 
long.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  or  read,  how  that 
once  an  old  pit  had  been  dug  open,  in  which  were  found  the 
remains  of  persons  that,  as  the  shuddering  by-standers  tra 
ditionally  remembered,  had  died  of  an  ancient  pestilence ; 
and  out  of  that  old  grave  had  come  a  new  plague,  that  slew 
the  far-off  progeny  of  those  who  had  first  died  by  it.  Might 
not  some  fatal  treasure  like  this,  in  a  moral  view,  be  brought 
to  light  by  the  secret  into  which  he  had  so  strangely  been 
drawn  ?  Such  were  the  fantasies  with  which  he  awaited  the 
return  of  Alice,  whose  light  footsteps  sounded  afar  along  the 
passages  of  the  old  mansion ;  and  then  all  was  silent. 

At  length  he  heard  the  sound,  a  great  way  off,  as  he  con 
cluded,  of  her  returning  footstep,  approaching  from  chamber 
to  chamber,  and  along  the  staircases,  closing  the  doors  be 
hind  her.  At  first,  he  paid  no  great  attention  to  the  char- 


THE  ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP.  443 

acter  of  these  sounds,  but  as  they  drew  nearer,  he  became 
aware  that  the  footstep  was  unlike  those  of  Alice ;  indeed,  as 
unlike  as  could  be,  very  regular,  slow,  yet  not  firm,  so  that 
it  seemed  to  be  that  of  an  aged  person,  sauntering  listlessly 
through  the  rooms.  We  have  often  alluded  to  Middleton's 
sensitiveness,  and  the  quick  vibrations  of  his  sympathies ; 
and  there  was  something  in  this  slow  approach  that  produced 
a  strange  feeling  within  him ;  so  that  he  stood  breathlessly, 
looking  towards  the  door  by  which  these  slow  footsteps  were 
to  enter.  At  last,  there  appeared  in  the  doorway  a  venera 
ble  figure,  clad  in  a  rich,  faded  dressing-gown,  and  stand 
ing  on  the  threshold  looked  fixedly  at  Middleton,  at  the 
same  time  holding  up  a  light  in  his  left  hand.  In  his  right 
was  some  object  that  Middleton  did  not  distinctly  see.  But 
he  knew  the  figure,  and  recognized  the  face.  It  was  the  old 
man,  his  long  since  companion  on  the  journey  hitherward. 

"  So,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling  gravely,  "  you  have 
thought  fit,  at  last,  to  accept  the  hospitality  which  I  offered 
you  so  long  ago.  It  might  have  been  better  for  both  of  us 
—  for  all  parties  —  if  you  had  accepted  it  then  !  " 

'k  You  here  !  "  exclaimed  Middleton.  "  And  what  can 
be  your  connection  with  all  the  error  and  trouble,  and  in 
voluntary  wrong,  through  which  I  have  wandered  since  our 
last  meeting  ?  And  is  it  possible  that  you  even  then  held 
the  clue  which  I  was  seeking  ?  " 

u  No,  —  no,"  replied  Rothermel.  '•  ^was  not  conscious, 
at  least,  of  so  doing.  And  yet  had  we  two  sat  down  there 
by  the  wayside,  or  on  that  English  stile,  which  attracted 
your  attention  so  much  ;  had  we  sat  down  there  and  thrown 
forth  each  his  own  dream,  each  his  own  knowledge,  it  would 
have  saved  much  that  we  must  now  forever  regret.  Are 
you  even  now  ready  to  confide  wholly  in  me  ?  " 

"  Alas,"  said  Middleton,  with  a  darkening  brow,  "  there 
are  many  reasons,  at  this  moment,  which  did  not  exist  then, 
to  incline  me  to  hold  my  peace.  And  why  has  not  Alice 
returned  ?  —  and  what  is  your  connection  with  her  ?  " 


444  APPENDIX. 

"  Let  her  answer  for  herself,"  said  Rothermel ;  and  he 
called  her,  shouting  through  the  silent  house  as  if  she  were 
at  the  furthest  chamber,  and  he  were  in  instant  need  : 
"  Alice  !  —  Alice  !  —  Alice  !  —  here  is  one  who  would  know 
what  is  the  link  between  a  maiden  and  her  father !  " 

Amid  the  strange  uproar  which  he  made  Alice  came  fly 
ing  back,  not  in  alarm  but  only  in  haste,  and  put  her  hand 
within  his  own.  "  Hush,  father,"  said  she.  "  It  is  not 
time." 

Here  is  an  abstract  of  the  plot  of  this  story.  The  Middle- 
ton  who  emigrated  to  America,  more  than  two  hundred  years 
ago,  had  been  a  dark  and  moody  man;  he  came  with  a 
beautiful  though  not  young  woman  for  his  wife,  and  left  a 
family  behind  him.  In  this  family  a  certain  heirloom  had 
been  preserved,  and  with  it  a  tradition  that  grew  wilder 
and  stranger  with  the  passing  generations.  The  tradition 
had  lost,  if  it  ever  had,  some  of  its  connecting  links  ;  but  it 
referred  to  a  murder,  to  the  expulsion  of  a  brother  from  the 
hereditary  house,  in  some  strange  way,  and  to  a  Bloody 
Footstep  which  he  had  left  impressed  into  the  threshold,  as 
he  turned  about  to  make  a  last  remonstrance.  It  was  ru 
mored,  however,  or  vaguely  understood,  that  the  expelled 
brother  was  not  altogether  an  innocent  man  ;  but  that  there 
had  been  wrong  done,  as  well  as  crime  committed,  insomuch 
that  his  reasons  were  strong  that  led  him,  subsequently,  to 
imbibe  the  most  gloomy  religious  views,  and  to  bury  him 
self  in  the  Western  wilderness.  These  reasons  he  had  never 
fully  imparted  to  his  family ;  but  had  necessarily  made  allu 
sions  to  them,  which  had  been  treasured  up  and  doubtless 
enlarged  upon.  At  last,  one  descendant  of  the  family  de 
termines  to  go  to  England,  with  the  purpose  of  searching 
out  whatever  ground  there  may  be  for  these  traditions, 
carrying  with  him  certain  ancient  documents,  and  other 
relics  ;  and  goes  about  the  country,  half  in  earnest,  and  half 
in  sport  of  fancy,  in  quest  of  the  old  family  mansion.  He 
makes  singular  discoveries,  all  of  which  bring  the  book  to 


THE  ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP.  445 

an  end  unexpected  by  everybody,  and  not  satisfactory  to 
the  natural  yearnings  of  novel  readers.  In  the  traditions 
that  he  brought  over,  there  was  a  key  to  some  family 
secrets  that  were  still  unsolved,  and  that  controlled  the  de 
scent  of  estates  and  titles.  His  influence  upon  these  mat 
ters  involves  [him]  in  divers  strange  and  perilous  adven 
tures  ;  and  at  last  it  turns  out  that  he  himself  is  the  rightful 
heir  to  the  titles  and  estate,  that  had  passed  into  another 
name  within  the  last  half-century.  But  he  respects  both, 
feeling  that  it  is  better  to  make  a  virgin  soil  than  to  try  to 
make  the  old  name  grow  in  a  soil  that  had  been  darkened 
with  so  much  blood  and  misfortune  as  this. 

April  27th.  Tuesday.  —  It  was  with  a  delightful  feeling 
of  release  from  ordinary  rules,  that  Middleton  found  himself 
brought  into  this  connection  with  Alice ;  and  he  only  hoped 
that  this  play-day  of  his  life  might  last  long  enough  to  rest 
him  from  all  that  he  had  suffered.  In  the  enjoyment  of  his 
position  he  almost  forgot  the  pursuit  that  occupied  him,  nor 
might  he  have  remembered  for  a  long  space  if,  one  evening, 
Alice  herself  had  not  alluded  to  it  "  You  are  wasting 
precious  days,"  she  suddenly  said.  "  Why  do  not  you  re 
new  your  quest  ?  " 

"  To  what  do  you  allude  ?  "  said  Middleton,  in  surprise. 
"  What  object  do  you  suppose  me  to  have  ?  " 

Alice  smiled  ;  nay,  laughed  outright.  "  You  suppose 
yourself  to  be  a  perfect  mystery,  no  doubt,"  she  replied. 
"  But  do  not  I  know  you  —  have  not  I  known  you  long  — 
as  the  holder  of  the  talisman,  the  owner  of  the  mysterious 
cabinet  that  contains  the  blood-stained  secret  ?  " 

"Nay,  Alice,  this  is  certainly  a  strange  coincidence,  that 
you  should  know  even  thus  much  of  a  foolish  secret  that 
makes  me  employ  this  little  holiday  time,  which  I  have 
stolen  out  of  a  weary  life,  in  a  wild-goose  chase.  But,  be 
lieve  me,  you  allude  to  matters  that  are  more  a  mystery  to 
me  than  my  affairs  appear  to  be  to  you.  Will  you  explain 
what  you  would  suggest  by  this  badinage  ?  " 


446  APPENDIX. 

Alice  shook  her  head.  "  You  have  no  claim  to  know 
what  I  know,  even  if  it  would  be  any  addition  to  your  own 
knowledge.  I  shall  not,  and  must  not  enlighten  you.  You 
must  burrow  for  the  secret  with  your  own  tools,  in  your  own 
manner,  and  in  a  place  of  your  own  choosing.  I  am  bound 
not  to  assist  you." 

"  Alice,  this  is  wilful,  wayward,  unjust,"  cried  Middle- 
ton,  with  a  flushed  cheek.  "  I  have  not  told  you  —  yet  you 
know  well  —  the  deep  and  real  importance  which  this  sub 
ject  has  for  me.  We  have  been  together  as  friends,  yet, 
the  instant  when  there  comes  up  an  occasion  when  the  slight 
est  friendly  feeling  would  induce  you  to  do  me  a  good  office, 
you  assume  this  altered  tone." 

"  My  tone  is  not  in  the  least  altered  in  respect  to  you,'* 
said  Alice.  "  All  along,  as  you  know,  I  have  reserved  my 
self  on  this  very  point ;  it  being,  I  candidly  tell  you,  im 
possible  for  me  to  act  in  your  interest  in  the  matter  alluded 
to.  If  you  choose  to  consider  this  unfriendly,  as  being  less 
than  the  terms  on  which  you  conceive  us  to  have  stood  give 
you  a  right  to  demand  of  me  —  you  must  resent  it  as  you 
please.  I  shall  not  the  less  retain  for  you  the  regard  due 
to  one  who  has  certainly  befriended  me  in  very  untoward 
circumstances." 

This  conversation  confirmed  the  previous  idea  of  Middle- 
ton,  that  some  mystery  of  a  peculiarly  dark  and  evil  charac 
ter  was  connected  with  the  family  secret  with  which  he  was 
himself  entangled  ;  but  it  perplexed  him  to  imagine  in  what 
way  this,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  should  continue 
to  be  a  matter  of  real  importance  at  the  present  day.  All 
the  actors  in  the  original  guilt  —  if  guilt  it  were  —  must 
have  been  long  ago  in  their  graves  ;  some  in  the  churchyard 
of  the  village,  with  those  moss-grown  letters  embossing  their 
names  ;  some  in  the  church  itself,  with  mural  tablets  re 
cording  their  names  over  the  family-pew,  and  one,  it  might 
be,  far  over  the  sea,  where  his  grave  was  first  made  under 
the  forest  leaves,  though  now  a  city  had  grown  up  around 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      447 

it.  Yet  here  was  he,  the  remote  descendant  of  that  family, 
setting  his  foot  at  last  in  the  country,  and  as  secretly  as 
might  be  ;  and  all  at  once  his  mere  presence  seemed  to  re 
vive  the  buried  secret,  almost  to  awake  the  dead  who  par 
took  of  that  secret  and  had  acted  it.  There  was  a  vibra 
tion  from  the  other  world,  continued  and  prolonged  into 
this,  the  instant  that  he  stepped  upon  the  mysterious  and 
haunted  ground. 

He  knew  not  in  what  way  to  proceed.  He  could  not  but 
feel  that  there  was  something  not  exactly  within  the  limits 
of  propriety  in  being  here,  disguised  —  at  least,  not  known 
in  his  true  character  —  prying  into  the  secrets  of  a  proud 
and  secluded  Englishman.  But  then,  as  he  said  to  himself 
on  his  own  side  of  the  question,  the  secret  belonged  to  him 
self  by  exactly  as  ancient  a  tenure  and  by  precisely  as  strong 
a  claim,  as  to  the  Englishman.  His  rights  here  were  just 
as  powerful  and  well-founded  as  those  of  his  ancestor  had 
been,  nearly  three  centuries  ago ;  and  here  the  same  feel 
ing  came  over  him  that  he  was  that  very  personage,  re 
turned  after  all  these  ages,  to  see  if  his  foot  would  fit  this 
bloody  footstep  left  of  old  upon  the  threshold.  The  result 
of  all  his  cogitation  was,  as  the  reader  will  have  foreseen, 
that  he  decided  to  continue  his  researches,  and,  his  proceed 
ings  being  pretty  defensible,  let  the  result  take  care  of  it 
self. 

For  this  purpose  he  went  next  day  to  the  hospital,  and 
ringing  at  the  Master's  door,  was  ushered  into  the  old-fash 
ioned,  comfortable  library,  where  he  had  spent  that  well-re 
membered  evening  which  threw  the  first  ray  of  light  on  the 
pursuit  that  now  seemed  developing  into  such  strange  and 
unexpected  consequences.  Being  admitted,  he  was  desired 
by  the  domestic  to  wait,  as  his  Reverence  was  at  that  mo 
ment  engaged  with  a  gentleman  on  business.  Glancing 
through  the  ivy  that  mantled  over  the  window,  Middleton 
saw  that  this  interview  was  taking  place  in  the  garden, 
where  the  Master  and  his  visitor  were  walking  to  and  fro  in 


448  APPENDIX. 

the  avenue  of  box,  discussing  some  matter,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  with  considerable  earnestness  on  both  sides.  He  ob 
served,  too,  that  there  was  warmth,  passion,  a  disturbed 
feeling  on  the  stranger's  part ;  while,  on  that  of  the  Master, 
it  was  a  calm,  serious,  earnest  representation  of  whatever 
view  he  was  endeavoring  to  impress  on  the  other.  At  last, 
the  interview  appeared  to  come  toward  a  climax,  the  Mas 
ter  addressing  some  words  to  his  guest,  still  with  undis 
turbed  calmness,  to  which  the  latter  replied  by  a  violent  and 
even  fierce  gesture,  as  it  should  seem  of  menace,  not  towards 
the  Master,  but  some  unknown  party ;  and  then  hastily 
turning,  he  left  the  garden  and  was  soon  heard  riding  away. 
The  Master  looked  after  him  awhile,  and  then,  shaking  his 
white  head,  returned  into  the  house  and  soon  entered  the 
parlor. 

He  looked  somewhat  surprised,  and,  as  it  struck  Middle- 
ton,  a  little  startled,  at  finding  him  there  ;  yet  he  welcomed 
him  with  all  his  former  cordiality  —  indeed,  with  a  friend 
ship  that  thoroughly  warmed  Middleton's  heart  even  to  its 
coldest  corner. 

"  This  is  strange  !  "  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  Do  you 
remember  our  conversation  on  that  evening  when  I  first  had 
the  unlooked-for  pleasure  of  receiving  you  as  a  guest  into 
my  house  ?  At  that  time  I  spoke  to  you  of  a  strange  family 
story,  of  which  there  was  no  denouement,  such  as  a  novel- 
writer  would  desire,  and  which  had  remained  in  that  un 
finished  posture  for  more  than  two  hundred  years  !  Well ; 
perhaps  it  will  gratify  you  to  know  that  there  seems  a  pros 
pect  of  that  wanting  termination  being  supplied  !  " 

"  Indeed !  "  said  Middleton. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Master.  "A  gentleman  has  just 
parted  with  me  who  was  indeed  the  representative  of  the 
family  concerned  in  the  story.  He  is  the  descendant  of  a 
younger  son  of  that  family,  to  whom  the  estate  devolved 
about  a  century  ago,  although  at  that  time  there  was  search 
for  the  heirs  of  the  elder  son,  who  had  disappeared  after 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      449 

the  bloody  incident  which  I  related  to  you.  Now,  singular 
as  it  may  appear,  at  this  late  day,  a  person  claiming  to  be 
the  descendant  and  heir  of  that  eldest  son  has  appeared, 
and  if  I  may  credit  my  friend's  account,  is  disposed  not 
only  to  claim  the  estate,  but  the  dormant  title  which  El- 
dredge  himself  has  been  so  long  preparing  to  claim  for  him 
self.  Singularly  enough,  too,  the  heir  is  an  American." 

May  2d,  Sunday.  —  "I  believe,"  said  Middleton,  " that 
many  English  secrets  might  find  their  solution  in  America, 
if  the  two  threads  of  a  story  could  be  brought  together,  dis 
joined  as  they  have  been  by  time  and  the  ocean.  But  are 
you  at  liberty  to  tell  me  the  nature  of  the  incidents  to  which 
you  allude  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  any  reason  to  the  contrary,"  answered  the 
Master ;  "  for  the  story  has  already  come  in  an  imperfect 
way  before  the  public,  and  the  full  and  authentic  particulars 
are  likely  soon  to  follow.  It  seems  that  the  younger  brother 
was  ejected  from  the  house  on  account  of  a  love  affair ;  the 
elder  having  married  a  young  woman  with  whom  the 
younger  was  in  love,  and,  it  is  said,  the  wife  disappeared 
on  the  bridal  night,  and  was  never  heard  of  more.  The 
elder  brother  remained  single  during  the  rest  of  his  life  ; 
and  dying  childless,  and  there  being  still  no  news  of  the 
second  brother,  the  inheritance  and  representation  of  the 
family  devolved  upon  the  third  brother  and  his  posterity. 
This  branch  of  the  family  has  ever  since  remained  in  pos 
session  ;  and  latterly  the  representation  has  become  of  more 
importance,  on  account  of  a  claim  to  an  old  title,  which,  by 
the  failure  of  another  branch  of  this  ancient  family,  has  de 
volved  upon  the  branch  here  settled.  Now,  just  at  this 
juncture,  comes  another  heir  from  America,  pretending  that 
he  is  the  descendant  of  a  marriage  between  the  second  son, 
supposed  to  have  been  murdered  on  the  threshold  of  the 
manor-house,  and  the  missing  bride  !  Is  it  not  a  singular 
story  ?  " 

"  It  would  seem  to  require  very  strong  evidence  to  prove 

VOL.  n.  29 


450  APPENDIX. 

it,"  said  Middleton.     "  And  methinks  a  Republican  should 
care  little  for  the  title,  however  he  might  value  the  estate." 

"  Both  —  both,"  said  the  Master,  smiling,  "  would  be 
equally  attractive  to  your  countryman.  But  there  are  fur 
ther  curious  particulars  in  connection  with  this  claim.  You 
must  know,  they  are  a  family  of  singular  characteristics, 
humorists,  sometimes  developing  their  queer  traits  into 
something  like  insanity ;  though  oftener,  I  must  say,  spend 
ing  stupid  hereditary  lives  here  on  their  estates,  rusting  out 
and  dying  without  leaving  any  biography  whatever  about 
them.  And  yet  there  has  always  been  one  very  queer  thing 
about  this  generally  very  commonplace  family.  It  is  that 
each  father,  on  his  death-bed,  has  had  an  interview  with  his 
son,  at  which  he  has  imparted  some  secret  that  has  evi 
dently  had  an  influence  on  the  character  and  after  life  of 
the  son,  making  him  ever  after  a  discontented  man,  aspir 
ing  for  something  he  has  never  been  able  to  find.  Now  the 
American,  I  am  told,  pretends  that  he  has  the  clue  which 
has  always  been  needed  to  make  the  secret  available  ;  the 
key  whereby  the  lock  may  be  opened  ;  the  something  that 
the  lost  son  of  the  family  carried  away  with  him,  and  by 
which  through  these  centuries  he  has  impeded  the  progress 
of  the  race.  And,  wild  as  the  story  seems,  he  does  cer 
tainly  seem  to  bring  something  that  looks  very  like  the  proof 
of  what  he  says." 

"  And  what  are  those  proofs  ?  "  inquired  Middleton,  won 
der-stricken  at  the  strange  reduplication  of  his  own  position 
and  pursuits. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  the  Master,  "  the  English  mar 
riage-certificate  by  a  clergyman  of  that  day  in  London,  after 
publication  of  the  banns,  with  a  reference  to  the  register  of 
the  parish  church  where  the  marriage  is  recorded.  Then, 
a  certified  genealogy  of  the  family  in  New  England,  where 
such  matters  can  be  ascertained  from  town  and  church  rec 
ords,  with  at  least  as  much  certainty,  it  would  appear,  as  in 
this  country.  He  has  likewise  a  manuscript  in  his  ancestor's 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  451 

autograph,  containing  a  brief  account  of  the  events  which 
banished  him  from  his  own  country ;  the  circumstances 
which  favored  the  idea  that  he  had  been  slain,  and  which 
he  himself  was  willing  should  be  received  as  a  belief ;  the 
fortune  that  led  him  to  America,  where  he  wished  to  found 
a  new  race  wholly  disconnected  with  the  past ;  and  this 
manuscript  he  sealed  up,  with  directions  that  it  should  *ot 
be  opened  till  two  hundred  years  after  his  death,  by  which 
time,  as  it  was  probable  to  conjecture,  it  would  matter  little 
to  any  mortal  whether  the  story  was  told  or  not.  A  whole 
generation  has  passed  since  the  time  when  the  paper  was  at 
last  unsealed  and  read,  so  long  it  had  no  operation ;  yet 
now,  at  last,  here  comes  the  American,  to  disturb  the  suc 
cession  of  an  ancient  family  I  " 

"  There  is  something  very  strange  in  all  this,"  said  Mid- 
dleton. 

And  indeed  there  was  something  stranger  in  his  view  of 
the  matter  than  he  had  yet  communicated  to  the  Master. 
For,  taking  into  consideration  the  relation  in  which  he  found 
himself  with  the  present  recognized  representative  of  the 
family,  the  thought  struck  him  that  his  coming  hither  had 
dug  up,  as  it  were,  a  buried  secret  that  immediately  assumed 
life  and  activity  the  moment  that  it  was  above  ground  again. 
For  seven  generations  the  family  had  vegetated  in  the  qui 
etude  of  English  country  gentility,  doing  nothing  to  make 
itself  known,  passing  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb  amid  the 
same  old  woods  that  had  waved  over  it  before  his  ancestor 
had  impressed  the  bloody  footstep  ;  and  yet  the  instant  that 
he  came  back,  an  influence  seemed  to  be  at  work  that  was 
likely  to  renew  the  old  history  of  the  family.  He  ques 
tioned  with  himself  whether  it  were  not  better  to  leave  all 
as  it  was  ;  to  withdraw  himself  into  the  secrecy  from  which 
he  had  but  half  emerged,  and  leave  the  family  to  keep  on, 
to  the  end  of  time  perhaps,  in  its  rusty  innocence,  rather 
than  to  interfere  with  his  wild  American  character  to  dis 
turb  it.  The  smell  of  that  dark  crime  —  that  brotherly  ha- 


452  APPENDIX. 

tred  and  attempted  murder  —  seemed  to  breathe  out  of  the 
ground  as  he  dug  it  up.  Was  it  not  better  that  it  should  re 
main  forever  buried,  for  what  to  him  was  this  old  English 
title  —  what  this  estate,  so  far  from  his  own  native  land, 
located  amidst  feelings  and  manners  which  would  never  be 
his  own  ?  It  was  late,  to  be  sure  —  yet  not  too  late  for  him 
to  turn  back :  the  vibration,  the  fear,  which  his  footsteps 
had  caused,  would  subside  into  peace !  Meditating  in  this 
way,  he  took  a  hasty  leave  of  the  kind  old  Master,  promis 
ing  to  see  him  again  at  an  early  opportunity.  By  chance, 

or  however  it  was,  his  footsteps  turned  to  the  woods  of 

Chace,  and  there  he  wandered  through  its  glades,  deep  in 
thought,  yet  always  with  a  strange  sense  that  he  was  tread 
ing  on  the  soil  where  his  ancestors  had  trodden,  and  where 
he  himself  had  best  right  of  all  men  to  be.  It  was  just  in 
this  state  of  feeling  that  he  found  his  course  arrested  by  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  What  business  have  you  here  ?  "  was  the  question 
sounded  in  his  ear  ;  and,,  starting,  he  found  himself  in  the 
grasp,  as  his  blood  tingled  to  know,  of  a  gentleman  in  a 
shooting-dress,  who  looked  at  him  with  a  wrathful  brow. 
"  Are  you  a  poacher,  or  what  ?  " 

Be  the  case  what  it  might,  Middleton's  blood  boiled  at 
the  grasp  of  that  hand,  as  it  never  before  had  done  in  the 
course  of  his  impulsive  life.  He  shook  himself  free,  and 
stood  fiercely  before  his  antagonist,  confronting  him  with 
his  uplifted  stick,  while  the  other,  likewise,  appeared  to  be 
shaken  by  a  strange  wrath. 

"  Fellow,"  muttered  he  —  "  Yankee  blackguard  !  —  im 
postor  —  take  yourself  off  these  grounds.  Quick,  or  it  will 
be  the  worse  for  you  !  " 

Middleton  restrained  himself.  "  Mr.  Eldredge,"  said  he, 
"  for  I  believe  I  speak  to  the  man  who  calls  himself  owner 
of  this  land  on  which  we  stand,  —  Mr.  Eldredge,  you  are 
acting  under  a  strange  misapprehension  of  my  character.  I 
have  come  hither  with  no  sinister  purpose,  and  am  entitled. 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  453 

at  the  hands  of  a  gentleman,  to  the  consideration  of  an  hon 
orable  antagonist,  even  if  you  deem  me  one  at  all.  And 
perhaps,  if  you  think  upon  the  blue  chamber  and  the  ebony 
cabinet,  and  the  secret  connected  with  it,"  — 

"  Villain,  no  more !  "  said  Eldredge  ;  and  utterly  mad 
with  rage,  he  presented  his  gun  at  Middleton  ;  but  even  at 
the  moment  of  doing  so,  he  partly  restrained  himself,  so  far 
as,  instead  of  shooting  him,  to  raise  the  butt  of  his  gun,  and 
strike  a  blow  at  him.  It  came  down  heavily  on  Middleton's 
shoulder,  though  aimed  at  his  head  ;  and  the  blow  was  ter 
ribly  avenged,  even  by  itself,  for  the  jar  caused  the  hammer 
to  come  down ;  the  gun  went  off,  sending  the  bullet  down 
wards  through  the  heart  of  the  unfortunate  man,  who  fell 
dead  upon  the  ground.  Eldredge  l  stood  stupefied,  looking 
at  the  catastrophe  which  had  so  suddenly  occurred. 

May  3d,  Monday.  —  So  here  was  the  secret  suddenly 
made  safe  in  this  so  terrible  way  ;  its  keepers  reduced  from 
two  parties  to  one  interest ;  the  other  who  alone  knew  of 
this  age-long  mystery  and  trouble  now  carrying  it  into  eter 
nity,  where  a  long  line  of  those  who  partook  of  the  knowl 
edge,  in  each  successive  generation,  might  now  be  waiting 
to  inquire  of  him  how  he  had  held  his  trust.  He  had  kept 
it  well,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  for  there  he  lay  dead  upon 
the  ground,  having  betrayed  it  to  no  one,  though  by  a  method 
which  none  could  have  foreseen,  the  whole  had  come  into 
the  possession  of  him  who  had  brought  hither  but  half  of  it. 
Middleton  looked  down  in  horror  upon  the  form  that  had 
just  been  so  full  of  life  and  wrathful  vigor  —  and  now  lay 
so  quietly.  Being  wholly  unconscious  of  any  purpose  to 
bring  about  the  catastrophe,  it  had  not  at  first  struck  him 
that  his  own  position  was  in  any  manner  affected  by  the 
violent  death,  under  such  circumstances,  of  the  unfortunate 
man.  But  now  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  that  there  had 
been  a  train  of  incidents  all  calculated  to  make  him  the  ob 
ject  of  suspicion ;  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not,  under  the 
1  Evidently  a  slip  of  the  pen  ;  Middleton  being  intended. 


454  APPENDIX. 

English  administration  of  law,  be  suffered  to  go  at  large 
without  rendering  a  strict  account  of  himself  and  his  rela 
tions  with  the  deceased.  He  might,  indeed,  fly ;  he  might 
still  remain  in  the  vicinity,  and  possibly  escape  notice.  But 
was  not  the  risk  too  great  ?  Was  it  just  even  to  be  aware 
of  this  event,  and  not  relate  fully  the  manner  of  it,  lest  a 
suspicion  of  blood-guiltiness  should  rest  upon  some  innocent 
head  ?  But  while  he  was  thus  cogitating,  he  heard  footsteps 
approaching  along  the  wood  -  path  ;  and  half  -  impulsively, 
half  on  purpose,  he  stept  aside  into  the  shrubbery,  but  still 
where  he  could  see  the  dead  body,  and  what  passed  near  it. 
The  footsteps  came  on,  and  at  the  turning  of  the  path, 
just  where  Middleton  had  met  Eldredge,  the  new-comer  ap 
peared  in  sight.  It  was  Hoper,  in  his  usual  dress  of  velve 
teen,  looking  now  seedy,  poverty-stricken,  and  altogether  in 
ill-case,  trudging  moodily  along,  with  his  hat  pulled  over  his 
brows,  so  that  he  did  not  see  the  ghastly  object  before  him 
till  his  foot  absolutely  trod  upon  the  dead  man's  hand.  Be 
ing  thus  made  aware  of  the  proximity  of  the  corpse,  he 
started  back  a  little,  yet  evincing  such  small  emotion  as  did 
credit  to  his  English  reserve  ;  then  uttering  a  low  exclama 
tion,  —  cautiously  low,  indeed,  —  he  stood  looking  at  the 
corpse  a  moment  or  two,  apparently  in  deep  meditation.  He 
then  drew  near,  bent  down,  and  without  evincing  any  horror 
at  the  touch  of  death  in  this  horrid  shape,  he  opened  the 
dead  man's  vest,  inspected  the  wound,  satisfied  himself  that 
life  was  extinct,  and  then  nodded  his  head  and  smiled 
gravely.  He  next  proceeded  to  examine  seriatim  the  dead 
man's  pockets,  turning  each  of  them  inside  out  and  taking 
the  contents,  where  they  appeared  adapted  to  his  needs : 
for  instance,  a  silken  purse,  through  the  interstices  of  which 
some  gold  was  visible ;  a  watch,  which  however  had  been 
injured  by  the  explosion,  and  had  stopt  just  at  the  moment 
—  twenty-one  minutes  past  five  —  when  the  catastrophe  took 
place.  Hoper  ascertained,  by  putting  the  watch  to  his  ear, 
that  this  was  the  case ;  then  pocketing  it,  he  continued  his 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      455 

researches.  He  likewise  secured  a  note-book,  on  examining 
which  he  found  several  bank-notes,  and  some  other  papers. 
And  having  done  this,  the  thief  stood  considering  what  to 
do  next ;  nothing  better  occurring  to  him,  he  thrust  the 
pockets  back,  gave  the  corpse  as  nearly  as  he  could  the 
same  appearance  that  it  had  worn  before  he  found  it,  and 
hastened  away,  leaving  the  horror  there  on  the  wood-path. 

He  had  been  gone  only  a  few  minutes  when  another  step, 
a  light  woman's  step,  [was  heard]  coming  along  the  path 
way,  and  Alice  appeared,  having  on  her  usual  white  mantle, 
straying  along  with  that  fearlessness  which  characterized 
her  so  strangely,  and  made  her  seem  like  one  of  the  deni 
zens  of  nature.  She  was  singing  in  a  low  tone  some  one  of 
those  airs  which  have  become  so  popular  in  England,  as 
negro  melodies  ;  when  suddenly,  looking  before  her,  she  saw 
the  blood-stained  body  on  the  grass,  the  face  looking  ghastly 
upward.  Alice  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  heart ;  it  was 
not  her  habit  to  scream,  not  the  habit  of  that  strong,  wild, 
self-dependent  nature ;  and  the  exclamation  which  broke 
from  her  was  not  for  help,  but  the  voice  of  her  heart  crying 
out  to  herself.  For  an  instant  she  hesitated,  as  [if]  not 
knowing  what  to  do  ;  then  approached,  and  with  her  white, 
maiden  hand  felt  the  brow  of  the  dead  man,  tremblingly, 
but  yet  firm,  and  satisfied  herself  that  life  had  wholly  de 
parted.  She  pressed  her  hand,  that  had  just  touched  the 
dead  man's,  on  her  forehead,  and  gave  a  moment  to  thought. 

What  her  decision  might  have  been,  we  cannot  say,  for 
while  she  stood  in  this  attitude,  Middleton  stept  from  his 
seclusion,  and  at  the  noise  of  his  approach  she  turned  sud 
denly  round,  looking  more  frightened  and  agitated  than  at 
the  moment  when  she  had  first  seen  the  dead  body.  She 
faced  Middleton,  however,  and  looked  him  quietly  in  the 
eye.  "  You  see  this  !  "  said  she,  gazing  fixedly  at  him.  "  It 
is  not  at  this  moment  that  you  first  discover  it." 

"  No,"  said  Middleton.  frankly.  "  It  is  not.  I  was  pres 
ent  at  the  catastrophe.  In  one  sense,  indeed,  I  was  the 


456  APPENDIX. 

cause  of  it;  but,  Alice,  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  am  no 
murderer." 

"A  murderer?  —  no,"  said  Alice,  still  looking  at  him 
with  the  same  fixed  gaze.  "  But  you  and  this  man  were  at 
deadly  variance.  He  would  have  rejoiced  at  any  chance 
that  would  have  laid  you  cold  and  bloody  on  the  earth,  as 
he  is  now  ;  nay,  he  would  most  eagerly  have  seized  on  any 
fair-looking  pretext  that  would  have  given  him  a  chance  to 
stretch  you  there.  The  world  will  scarcely  believe,  when  it 
knows  all  about  your  relations  with  him,  that  his  blood  is 
not  on  your  hand.  Indeed,"  said  she,  with  a  strange  smile, 
"  I  see  some  of  it  there  now !  " 

And,  in  very  truth,  so  there  was ;  a  broad  blood  -  stain 
that  had  dried  on  Middleton's  hand.  He  shuddered  at  it, 
but  essayed  vainly  to  rub  it  off. 

"You  see,"  said  she.  "It  was  foreordained  that  you 
should  shed  this  man's  blood ;  foreordained  that,  by  digging 
into  that  old  pit  of  pestilence,  you  should  set  the  contagion 
loose  again.  You  should  have  left  it  buried  forever.  But 
now  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  proclaim  this  catastrophe,"  replied  Middleton.  "  It 
is  the  only  honest  and  manly  way.  What  else  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  can  and  ought  to  leave  him  on  the  wood  -  path, 
where  he  has  fallen,"  said  Alice,  "  and  go  yourself  to  take 
advantage  of  the  state  of  things  which  Providence  has 
brought  about.  Enter  the  old  house,  the  hereditary  house, 
where  —  now,  at  least : —  you  alone  have  a  right  to  tread. 
Now  is  the  hour.  All  is  within  your  grasp.  Let  the  wrong 
of  three  hundred  years  be  righted,  and  come  back  thus  to 
your  own,  to  these  hereditary  fields,  this  quiet,  long-de 
scended  home  ;  to  title,  to  honor." 

Yet  as  the  wild  maiden  spoke  thus,  there  was  a  sort  of 
mockery  in  her  eyes ;  on  her  brow ;  gleaming  through  all 
her  face,  as  if  she  scorned  what  she  thus  pressed  upon  him, 
the  spoils  of  the  dead  man  who  lay  at  their  feet.  Middle- 
ton,  with  his  susceptibility,  could  not  [but]  be  sensible  of 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  457 

a  wild  and  strange  charm,  as  well  as  horror,  in  the  situa- 
tion ;  it  seemed  such  a  wonder  that  here,  in  formal,  orderly, 
well-governed  England,  so  wild  a  scene  as  this  should  have 
occurred ;  that  they  too  [two  ?]  should  stand  here,  deciding 
on  the  descent  of  an  estate,  and  the  inheritance  of  a  title, 
holding  a  court  of  their  own. 

"  Come,  then,  "  said  he,  at  length.  '"  Let  us  leave  this 
poor  fallen  antagonist  in  his  blood,  and  go  whither  you  will 
lead  me.  I  will  judge  for  myself.  At  all  events,  I  will 
not  leave  my  hereditary  home  without  knowing  what  my 
power  is." 

"  Come,"  responded  Alice ;  and  she  turned  back ;  but 
then  returned  and  threw  a  handkerchief  over  the  dead 
man's  face,  which  while  they  spoke  had  assumed  that  quiet, 
ecstatic  expression  of  joy  which  often  is  observed  to  over 
spread  the  faces  of  those  who  die  of  gunshot  wounds,  how 
ever  fierce  the  passion  in  which  the  spirits  took  their  flight. 
With  this  strange,  grand,  awful  joy  did  the  dead  man  gaze 
upward  into  the  very  eyes  and  hearts,  as  it  were,  of  the  two 
that  now  bent  over  him.  They  looked  at  one  another. 

"  Whence  comes  this  expression  ? "  said  Middleton, 
thoughtfully.  "  Alice,  methinks  he  is  reconciled  to  us  now  ; 
and  that  we  are  members  of  one  reconciled  family,  all  of 
whom  are  in  heaven  but  me." 

Tuesday ',  May  &th.  —  "  How  strange  is  this  whole  situa 
tion  between  you  and  me,"  said  Middleton,  as  they  went  up 
the  winding  pathway  that  led  towards  the  house.  "  Shall  I 
ever  understand  it  ?  Do  you  mean  ever  to  explain  it  to  me  ? 
That  I  should  find  you  here  with  that  old  man,1  so  mysteri- 

1  The  allusion  here  is  apparently  to  the  old  man  who  proclaims 
himself  Alice's  father,  in  the  portion  dated  April  14th.  He  figures 
hereafter  as  the  old  Hospitaller,  Hammond.  The  reader  must  not 
take  this  present  passage  as  referring  to  the  death  of  Eldredge,  which 
has  just  taken  place  in  the  preceding  section.  The  author  is  now  be 
ginning  to  elaborate  the  relation  of  Middleton  and  Alice.  As  will  be 
seen,  farther  on,  the  death  of  Eldredge  is  ignored  and  abandoned ; 
Eldredge  is  revived,  and  the  story  proceeds  in  another  way.  —  G.  P.  L. 


458  APPENDIX. 

ous,  apparently  so  poor,  yet  so  powerful !  What  [is]  his 
relation  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  close  one,"  replied  Alice  sadly.   "  He  was  my  father  !  " 

"  Your  father  !  "  repeated  Middleton,  starting  back.  "  It 
does  but  heighten  the  wonder !  Your  father !  And  yet, 
by  all  the  tokens  that  birth  and  breeding,  and  habits  of 
thought  and  native  character  can  show,  you  are  my  country 
woman.  That  wild,  free  spirit  was  never  born  in  the  breast 
of  an  Englishwoman  ;  that  slight  frame,  that  slender  beauty, 
that  frail  envelopment  of  a  quick,  piercing,  yet  stubborn 
and  patient  spirit,  —  are  those  the  properties  of  an  English 
maiden  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Alice  quietly.  "  I  am  your  coun 
trywoman.  My  father  was  an  American,  and  one  of  whom 
you  have  heard  —  and  no  good,  alas  !  —  for  many  a  year." 

"  And  who  then  was  he  ?  "  asked  Middleton. 

"  I  know  not  whether  you  will  hate  me  for  telling  you," 
replied  Alice,  looking  him  sadly  though  firmly  in  the  face. 
"  There  was  a  man  —  long  years  since,  in  your  childhood  — 
whose  plotting  brain  proved  the  ruin  of  himself  and  many 
another;  a  man  whose  great  designs  made  him  a  scrt  of 
potentate,  whose  schemes  became  of  national  importance,  and 
produced  results  even  upon  the  history  of  the  country  in 
which  he  acted.  That  man  was  my  father  ;  a  man  who 
sought  to  do  great  things,  and,  like  many  who  have  had  sim 
ilar  aims,  disregarded  many  small  rights,  strode  over  them, 
on  his  way  to  effect  a  gigantic  purpose.  Among  other  men, 
your  father  was  trampled  under  foot,  ruined,  done  to  death, 
even,  by  the  effects  of  his  ambition." 

"  How  is  it  possible  !  "  exclaimed  Middleton.  "  Was  it 
Wentworth  ?  " 

"  Even  so,"  said  Alice,  still  with  the  same  sad  calmness 
and  not  withdrawing  her  steady  eyes  from  his  face.  "  After 
his  ruin ;  after  the  catastrophe  that  overwhelmed  him  and 
hundreds  more,  he  took  to  flight ;  guilty,  perhaps,  but  guilty 
as  a  fallen  conqueror  is ;  guilty  to  such  an  extent  that  he 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  459 

ceased  to  be  a  cheat,  as  a  conqueror  ceases  to  be  a  murderer. 
He  came  to  England.  My  father  had  an  original  nobility 
of  nature ;  and  his  life  had  not  been  such  as  to  debase  it, 
but  rather  such  as  to  cherish  and  heighten  that  self-esteem 
which  at  least  keeps  the  possessor  of  it  from  many  meaner 
vices.  He  took  nothing  with  him  ;  nothing  beyond  the  bare 
means  of  flight,  with  the  world  before  him,  although  thou 
sands  of  gold  would  not  have  been  missed  out  of  the  scat 
tered  fragments  of  ruin  that  lay  around  him.  He  found  his 
way  hither,  led,  as  you  were,  by  a  desire  ,to  reconnect  him 
self  with  the  place  whence  his  family  had  originated :  for 
he,  too,  was  of  a  race  which  had  something  to  do  with  the 
ancient  story  which  has  now  been  brought  to  a  close.  Ar 
rived  here,  there  were  circumstances  that  chanced  to  make 
his  talents  and  habits  of  business  available  to  this  Mr.  El- 
dredge,  a  man  ignorant  and  indolent,  unknowing  how  to 
make  the  best  of  the  property  that  was  in  his  hands.  By 
degrees,  he  took  the  estate  into  his  management,  acquiring 
necessarily  a  preponderating  influence  over  such  a  man." 

"  And  you,"  said  Middleton.  "  Have  you  been  all  along 
in  England  ?  For  you  must  have  been  little  more  than  an 
infant  at  the  time." 

"  A  mere  infant,"  said  Alice,  "  and  I  remained  in  our 
own  country  under  the  care  of  a  relative  who  left  me  much 
to  my  own  keeping ;  much  to  the  influences  of  that  wild 
culture  which  the  freedom  of  our  country  gives  to  its  youth. 
It  is  only  two  years  that  I  have  been  in  England." 

"  This,  then,"  said  Middleton  thoughtfully,  "  accounts  for 
much  that  has  seemed  so  strange  in  the  events  through 
which  we  have  passed ;  for  the  knowledge  of  my  identity 
and  my  half-defined  purpose  which  has  always  glided  before 
me,  and  thrown  so  many  strange  shapes  of  difficulty  in  my 
path.  But  whence,  —  whence  came  that  malevolence  which 
your  father's  conduct  has  so  unmistakably  shown  ?  I  had 
done  him  no  injury,  though  I  had  suffered  much." 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  replied  Alice,  "  that  my  father, 


4GO  APPENDIX. 

though  retaining  a  preternatural  strength  and  acuteness  ol 
intellect,  was  really  not  altogether  sane.  And,  besides,  he 
had  made  it  his  business  to  keep  this  estate,  and  all  the 
complicated  advantages  of  the  representation  of  this  old 
family,  secure  to  the  person  who  was  deemed  to  have  inher 
ited  them.  A  succession  of  ages  and  generations  might  be 
supposed  to  have  blotted  out  your  claims  from  existence ; 
for  it  is  not  just  that  there  should  be  no  term  of  time  which 
can  make  security  for  lack  of  fact  and  a  few  formalities. 
At  all  events,  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  his  duty  was  to 
act  as  he  has  done." 

"  Be  it  so !  I  do  not  seek  to  throw  blame  on  him,"  said 
Middleton.  "  Besides,  Alice,  he  was  your  father  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  she,  sadly  smiling;  "let  him  [have]  what 
protection  that  thought  may  give  him,  even  though  I  lose 
what  he  may  gain.  And  now  here  we  are  at  the  house. 
At  last,  come  in !  It  is  your  own ;  there  is  none  that  can 
longer  forbid  you  !  " 

They  entered  the  door  of  the  old  mansion,  now  a  farm 
house,  and  there  were  its  old  hall,  its  old  chambers,  all  be 
fore  them.  They  ascended  the  staircase,  and  stood  on  the 
landing-place  above ;  while  Middleton  had  again  that  feel 
ing  that  had  so  often  made  him  dizzy,  —  that  sense  of  being 
in  one  dream  and  recognizing  the  scenery  and  events  of  a 
former  dream.  So  overpowering  was  this  feeling,  that  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  slender  arm  of  Alice,  to  steady  him 
self  ;  and  she  comprehended  the  emotion  that  agitated  him, 
and  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  tender  sympathy,  which  she 
had  never  before  permitted  to  be  visible, — perhaps  never 
before  felt.  He  steadied  himself  and  followed  her  till  they 
had  entered  an  ancient  chamber,  but  one  that  was  finished 
with  all  the  comfortable  luxury  customary  to  be  seen  in 
English  homes. 

"  Whither  have  you  led  me  now  ?  "  inquired  Middleton. 

"  Look  round,"  said  Alice.  "  Is  there  nothing  here  that 
you  ought  to  recognize  ?  —  nothing  that  you  kept  the  mem 
ory  of,  long  ago  ?  " 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  461 

He  looked  round  the  room  again  and  again,  and  at  last, 
in  a  somewhat  shadowy  corner,  he  espied  an  old  cabinet 
made  of  ebony  and  inlaid  with  pearl  ;  one  of  those  tall, 
stately,  and  elaborate  pieces  of  furniture  that  are  rather  art 
icles  of  architecture  than  upholstery ;  and  on  which  a  higher 
skill,  feeling,  and  genius  than  now  is  ever  employed  on  such 
things,  was  expended.  Alice  drew  near  the  stately  cabinet 
and  threw  wide  the  doors,  which,  like  the  portals  of  a  pal 
ace,  stood  between  two  pillars ;  it  all  seemed  to  be  unlocked, 
showing  within  some  beautiful  old  pictures  in  the  panel  of 
the  doors,  and  a  mirror,  that  opened  a  long  succession  of 
mimic  halls,  reflection  upon  reflection,  extending  to  an  in 
terminable  nowhere. 

"  And  what  is  this  ?  "  said  Middleton,  —  "  a  cabinet  ? 
Why  do  you  draw  my  attention  so  strongly  to  it  ?  " 

'•  Look  at  it  well,"  said  she.  "  Do  you  recognize  nothing 
there  ?  Have  you  forgotten  your  description  ?  The  stately 
palace  with  its  architecture,  each  pillar  with  its  architecture, 
those  pilasters,  that  frieze ;  you  ought  to  know  them  all. 
Somewhat  less  than  you  imagined  in  size,  perhaps ;  a  fairy 
reality,  inches  for  yards  ;  that  is  the  only  difference.  And 
you  have  the  key  ?  " 

And  there  then  was  that  palace,  to  which  tradition,  so 
false  at  once  and  true,  had  given  such  magnitude  and  mag 
nificence  in  the  traditions  of  the  Middleton  family,  around 
their  shifting  fireside  in  America.  Looming  afar  through 
the  mists  of  time,  the  little  fact  had  become  a  gigantic  vision. 
Yes,  here  it  was  in  miniature,  all  that  he  had  dreamed  of ; 
a  palace  of  four  feet  high  ! 

u  You  have  the  key  of  tin's  palace,"  said  Alice ;  "  it  has 
waited  —  that  is,  its  secret  and  precious  chamber  has,  for 
you  to  open  it,  these  three  hundred  years.  Do  you  know 
how  to  find  that  secret  chamber  ?  " 

Middleton.  still  in  that  dreamy  mood,  threw  open  an  in 
ner  door  of  the  cabinet,  and  applying  the  old-fashioned  key 
at  his  watch-chain  to  a  hole  in  the  mimic  pavement  within, 


462  APPENDIX. 

pressed  one  of  the  mosaics,  and  immediately  the  whole  floor 
of  the  apartment  sank,  and  revealed  a  receptacle  within. 
Alice  had  come  forward  eagerly,  and  they  both  looked  into 
the  hiding-place,  expecting  what  should  be  there.  It  was 
empty  !  They  looked  into  each  other's  faces  with  blank  as 
tonishment.  Everything  had  been  so  strangely  true,  and  so 
strangely  false,  up  to  this  moment,  that  they  could  not  com 
prehend  this  failure  at  the  last  moment.  It  was  the  strangest, 
saddest  jest !  It  brought  Middleton  up  with  such  a  sudden 
revulsion  that  he  grew  dizzy,  and  the  room  swam  round  him 
and  the  cabinet  dazzled  before  his  eyes.  It  had  been  mag 
nified  to  a  palace  ;  it  had  dwindled  down  to  Liliputian  size ; 
and  yet,  up  till  now,  it  had  seemed  to  contain  in  its  dimiim- 
tiveness  all  the  riches  which  he  had  attributed  to  its  magni 
tude.  This  last  moment  had  utterly  subverted  it ;  the  whole 
great  structure  seemed  to  vanish. 

"  See  ;  here  are  the  dust  and  ashes  of  it,"  observed  Alice, 
taking  something  that  was  indeed  only  a  pinch  of  dust  out 
of  the  secret  compartment.  "  There  is  nothing  else." 


II. 

May  5th,  Wednesday.  —  The  father  of  these  two  sons,  an 
aged  man  at  the  time,  took  much  to  heart  their  enmity ; 
and  after  the  catastrophe,  he  never  held  up  his  head  again. 
He  was  not  told  that  his  son  had  perished,  though  such  was 
the  belief  of  the  family ;  but  imbibed  the  opinion  that  he 
had  left  his  home  and  native  land  to  become  a  wanderer  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  that  some  time  or  other  he  might 
return.  In  this  idea  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days  ;  in 
this  idea  he  died.  It  may  be  that  the  influence  of  this  idea 
might  be  traced  in  the  way  in  which  he  spent  some  of  the 
latter  years  of  his  life,  and  a  portion  of  the  wealth  which 
had  become  of  little  value  in  his  eyes,  since  it  had  caused 
dissension  and  bloodshed  between  the  sons  of  one  household. 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  4G3 

It  was  a  common  mode  of  charity  in  those  days  —  a  com 
mon  thing  for  rich  men  to  do  —  to  found  an  almshouse  or  a 
hospital,  and  endow  it,  for  the  support  of  a  certain  number 
of  old  and  destitute  men  or  women,  generally  such  as  had 
some  claim  of  blood  upon  the  founder,  or  at  least  were  na 
tives  of  the  parish,  the  district,  the  county,  where  he  dwelt. 
The  Eldredge  Hospital  was  founded  for  the  benefit  of  twelve 
old  men,  who  should  have  been  wanderers  upon  the  face  of 
the  earth  ;  men,  they  should  be,  of  some  education,  but  de 
feated  and  hopeless,  cast  off  by  the  world  for  misfortune, 
but  not  for  crime.  And  this  charity  had  subsisted,  on  terms 
varying  little  or  nothing  from  the  original  ones,  from  that 
day  to  this  ;  and,  at  this  very  time,  twelve  old  men  were 
not  wanting,  of  various  countries,  of  various  fortunes,  but  all 
ending  finally  in  ruin,  who  had  centred  here,  to  live  on  the 
poor  pittance  that  had  been  assigned  to  them,  three  hundred 
years  ago.  What  a  series  of  chronicles  it  would  have  been 
if  each  of  the  beneficiaries  of  this  charity,  since  its  founda 
tion,  had  left  a  record  of  the  events  which  finally  led  him 
hither.  Middleton  often,  as  he  talked  with  these  old  men, 
regretted  that  h?  himself  had  no  turn  for  authorship,  so  rich 
a  volume  might  he  have  compiled  from  the  experience, 
sometimes  sunny  and  triumphant,  though  always  ending  in 
shadow,  which  he  gathered  here.  They  were  glad  to  talk 
to  him,  and  would  have  been  glad  and  grateful  for  any  au 
ditor,  as  they  sat  on  one  or  another  of  the  stone  benches,  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  garden ;  or  at  evening,  around  the  great 
fireside,  or  within  the  chimney-corner,  with  their  pipes  and 
ale. 

There  was  one  old  man  who  attracted  much  of  his  atten 
tion,  by  the  venerableness  of  his  aspect ;  by  something  digni 
fied,  almost  haughty  and  commanding,  in  his  air.  What 
ever  might  have  been  the  intentions  and  expectations  of  the 
founder,  it  certainly  had  happened  in  these  latter  days  that 
there  was  a  difficulty  in  finding  persons  of  education,  of 
good  manners,  of  evident  respectability,  to  put  into  the 


464  APPENDIX. 

places  made  vacant  by  deaths  of  members  ;  whether  that 
the  paths  of  life  are  surer  now  than  they  used  to  be,  and 
that  men  so  arrange  their  lives  as  not  to  be  left,  in  any 
event,  quite  without  resources  as  they  draw  near  its  close ; 
at  any  rate,  there  was  a  little  tincture  of  the  vagabond  run 
ning  through  these  twelve  quasi  gentlemen,  —  through  sev 
eral  of  them,  at  least.  But  this  old  man  could  not  well  be 
mistaken ;  in  his  manners,  in  his  tones,  in  all  his  natural 
language  and  deportment,  there  was  evidence  that  he  had 
been  more  than  respectable ;  and,  viewing  him,  Middleton 
could  not  help  wondering  what  statesman  had  suddenly 
vanished  out  of  public  life  and  taken  refuge  here,  for  his 
head  was  of  the  statesman-class,  and  his  demeanor  that  of 
one  who  had  exercised  influence  over  large  numbers  of  men. 
He  sometimes  endeavored  to  set  on  foot  a  familiar  relation 
with  this  old  man,  but  there  was  even  a  sternness  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  repelled  these  advances,  that  gave  little 
encouragement  for  their  renewal.  Nor  did  it  seem  that  his 
companions  of  the  Hospital  were  more  in  his  confidence  than 
Middleton  himself.  They  regarded  him  with  a  kind  of  awe, 
a  shyness,  and  in  most  cases  with  a  certain  dislike,  which 
denoted  an  imperfect  understanding  of  him.  To  say  the 
truth,  there  was  not  generally  much  love  lost  between  any 
of  the  members  of  this  family  ;  they  had  met  with  too  much 
disappointment  in  the  world  to  take  kindly,  now,  to  one  an 
other  or  to  anything  or  anybody.  I  rather  suspect  that  they 
really  had  more  pleasure  in  burying  one  another,  when  the 
time  came,  than  in  any  other  office  of  mutual  kindness  and 
brotherly  love  which  it  was  their  part  to  do  ;  not  out  of 
hardness  of  heart,  but  merely  from  soured  temper,  and  be 
cause,  when  people  have  met  disappointment  and  have  set 
tled  down  into  final  unhappiness,  with  no  more  gush  and 
spring  of  good  spirits,  there  is  nothing  any  more  to  create 
amiability  out  of. 

So   the    old   people  were   unamiable   and   cross   to   one 
another,  and  unamiable  and  cross  to   old  Hammond,  yet 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      465 

always  with  a  certain  respect ;  and  the  result  seemed  to  be 
such  as  treated  the  old  man  well  enough.  And  thus  he 
moved  about  among  them,  a  mystery ;  the  histories  of  the 
others,  in  the  general  outline,  were  well  enough  known,  and 
perhaps  not  very  uncommon ;  this  old  man's  history  was 
known  to  none,  except,  of  course,  to  the  trustees  of  the 
charity,  and  to  the  Master  of  the  Hospital,  to  whom  it  had 
necessarily  been  revealed,  before  the  beneficiary  could  be 
admitted  as  an  inmate.  It  was  judged,  by  the  deportment 
of  the  Master,  that  the  old  man  had  once  held  some  eminent 
position  in  society ;  for,  though  bound  to  treat  them  all  as 
gentlemen,  he  was  thought  to  show  an  especial  and  solemn 
courtesy  to  Hammond. 

Yet  by  the  attraction  which  two  strong  and  cultivated 
minds  inevitably  have  for  one  another,  there  did  spring  up 
an  acquaintanceship,  an  intercourse,  between  Middleton  and 
this  old  man,  which  was  followed  up  in  many  a  conversation 
which  they  held  together  on  all  subjects  that  were  supplied 
by  the  news  of  the  day,  or  the  history  of  the  past.  Middle- 
ton  used  to  make  the  newspaper  the  opening  for  much  dis 
cussion  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  talk  of  his  compan 
ion  had  much  of  the  character  of  that  of  a  retired  statesman, 
on  matters  which,  perhaps,  he  would  look  at  all  the  more 
wisely,  because  it  was  impossible  he  could  ever  more  have 
a  personal  agency  in  them.  Their  discussions  sometimes 
turned  upon  the  affairs  of  his  own  country,  and  its  relations 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  especially  with  England  ;  and 
Middleton  could  not  help  being  struck  with  the  accuracy  of 
the  old  man's  knowledge  respecting  that  country,  which  so 
few  Englishmen  know  anything  about ;  his  shrewd  appre 
ciation  of  the  American  character,  —  shrewd  and  caustic, 
yet  not  without  a  good  degree  of  justice  ;  the  sagacity  of 
his  remarks  on  the  past,  and  prophecies  of  what  was  likely 
to  happen,  —  prophecies  which,  in  one  instance,  were  singu 
larly  verified,  in  regard  to  a  complexity  which  was  then 
arresting  the  attention  of  both  countries. 

VOL.  xi.  30 


466  APPENDIX. 

"  You  must  have  been  in  the  United  States,"  said  he,  one 
day. 

"  Certainly  ;  my  remarks  imply  personal  knowledge," 
was  the  reply.  "  But  it  was  before  the  days  of  steam." 

"  And  not,  I  should  imagine,  for  a  brief  visit,"  said  Mid- 
dleton.  "  I  only  wish  the  administration  of  this  government 
had  the  benefit  to-day  of  your  knowledge  of  my  country 
men.  It  might  be  better  for  both  of  these  kindred  nations." 

*  Not  a  whit,"  said  the  old  man.  "  England  will  never 
understand  America  ;  for  England  never  does  understand  a 
foreign  country  ;  and  whatever  you  may  say  about  kindred, 
America  is  as  much  a  foreign  country  as  France  itself. 
These  two  hundred  years  of  a  different  climate  and  circum 
stances  —  of  life  on  a  broad  continent  instead  of  in  an  isl 
and,  to  say  nothing  of  the  endless  intermixture  of  nation 
alities  in  every  part  of  the  United  States,  except  New  Eng 
land  —  have  created  a  new  and  decidedly  original  type  of 
national  character.  It  is  as  well  for  both  parties  that  they 
should  not  aim  at  any  very  intimate  connection.  It  will 
never  do." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  so,"  said  Middleton ;  "  they 
are  at  all  events  two  noble  breeds  of  men,  and  ought  to  ap 
preciate  one  another.  And  America  has  the  breadth  of 
idea  to  do  this  for  England,  whether  reciprocated  or  not." 

Thursday,  May  6th.  —  Thus  Middleton  was  established  in 
a  singular  way  among  these  old  men,  in  one  of  the  surround 
ings  most  unlike  anything  in  his  own  country.  So  old  it 
was  that  it  seemed  to  him  the  freshest  and  newest  thing  that 
he  had  ever  met  with.  The  residence  was  made  infinitely 
the  more  interesting  to  him  by  the  sense  that  he  was  near 
the  place  —  as  all  the  indications  warned  him  —  which  he 
sought,  whither  his  dreams  had  tended  from  his  childhood  ; 
that  he  could  wander  each  day  round  the  park  within  which 
were  the  old  gables  of  what  he  believed  was  his  hereditary 
home.  He  had  never  known  anything  like  the  dreamy  en 
joyment  of  these  days  ;  so  quiet,  such  a  contrast  to  the  tur- 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      467 

bolent  life  from  which  he  had  escaped  across  the  sea.  And 
here  he  set  himself,  still  with  that  sense  of  shadowiness  in 
what  he  saw  and  in  what  he  did,  in  making  all  the  re 
searches  possible  to  him,  about  the  neighborhood  ;  visiting 
every  little  church  that  raised  its  square  battlementecl  2s  or- 
man  tower  of  gray  stone,  for  several  miles  round  about ; 
making  himself  acquainted  with  each  little  village  and  ham 
let  that  surrounded  these  churches,  clustering  about  the 
graves  of  those  who  had  dwelt  in  the  same  cottages  afore 
time.  He  visited  all  the  towns  within  a  dozen  miles ;  and 
probably  there  were  few  of  the  inhabitants  who  had  so  good 
an  acquaintance  with  the  neighborhood  as  this  native  Amer 
ican  attained  within  a  few  weeks  after  his  coming  thither. 

In  course  of  these  excursions  he  had  several  times  met 
with  a  young  woman,  —  a  young  lady,  one  might  term  her, 
but  in  fact  he  was  in  some  doubt  what  rank  she  might  hold, 
in  England,  —  who  happened  to  be  wandering  about  the 
country  with  a  singular  freedom.  She  was  always  alone, 
always  on  foot;  he  would  see  her  sketching  some  pictur 
esque  old  church,  some  ivied  ruin,  some  fine  drooping  elm. 
She  was  a  slight  figure,  much  more  so  than  English  women 
generally  are ;  and,  though  healthy  of  aspect,  had  not  the 
ruddy  complexion,  which  he  was  irreverently  inclined  to 
call  the  coarse  tint,  that  is  believed  the  great  charm  of  Eng 
lish  beauty.  There  was  a  freedom  in  her  step  and  whole 
little  womanhood,  an  elasticity,  an  irregularity,  so  to  speak, 
that  made  her  memorable  from  first  sight ;  and  when  he 
had  encountered  her  three  or  four  times,  he  felt  in  a  certain 
way  acquainted  with  her.  She  was  very  simply  dressed, 
and  quite  as  simple  in  her  deportment ;  there  had  been  one 
or  two  occasions,  when  they  had  both  smiled  at  the  same 
thing  ;  soon  afterwards  a  little  conversation  had  taken  place 
between  them  ;  and  thus,  without  any  introduction,  and  in  a 
way  that  somewhat  puzzled  Middleton  himself,  they  had  be 
come  acquainted.  It  was  so  unusual  that  a  young  English 
girl  should  be  wandering  about  the  country  entirely  alone  — 


468  APPENDIX. 

so  much  less  usual  that  she  should  speak  to  a  stranger  — 
that  Middleton  scarcely  knew  how  to  account  for  it,  but 
meanwhile  accepted  the  fact  readily  and  willingly,  for  in 
truth  he  found  this  mysterious  personage  a  very  likely  and 
entertaining  companion.  There  was  a  strange  quality  of 
boldness  in  her  remarks,  almost  of  brusqueness,  that  he 
might  have  expected  to  find  in  a  young  countrywoman  of 
his  own,  if  bred  up  among  the  strong-minded,  but  was  as 
tonished  to  find  in  a  young  Englishwoman.  Somehow  or 
other  she  made  him  think  more  of  home  than  any  other  per 
son  or  thing  he  met  with ;  and  he  could  not  but  feel  that 
she  was  in  strange  contrast  with  everything  about  her.  She 
was  no  beauty  ;  very  piquant ;  very  pleasing ;  in  some  points 
of  view  and  at  some  moments  pretty ;  always  good-humored, 
but  somewhat  too  self-possessed  for  Middleton's  taste.  It 
struck  him  that  she  had  talked  with  him  as  if  she  had  some 
knowledge  of  him  and  of  the  purposes  with  which  he  was 
there  ;  not  that  this  was  expressed,  but  only  implied  by  the 
fact  that,  on  looking  back  to  what  had  passed,  he  found  many 
strange  coincidences  in  what  she  had  said  with  what  he  was 
thinking  about. 

He  perplexed  himself  much  with  thinking  whence  this 
young  woman  had  come,  where  she  belonged,  and  what 
might  be  her  history ;  when,  the  next  day,  he  again  saw 
her,  not  this  time  rambling  on  foot,  but  seated  in  an  open 
barouche  with  a  young  lady.  Middleton  lifted  his  hat  to 
her,  and  she  nodded  and  smiled  to  him  ;  and  it  appeared  to 
Middleton  that  a  conversation  ensued  about  him  with  the 
young  lady,  her  companion.  Now,  what  still  more  inter 
ested  him  was  the  fact  that,  on  the  panel  of  the  barouche 
were  the  arms  of  the  family  now  in  possession  of  the  estate 
of  Smithell's ;  so  that  the  young  lady,  his  new  acquaintance, 
or  the  young  lady,  her  seeming  friend,  one  or  the  other,  was 
the  sister  of  the  present  owner  of  that  estate.  He  was  in 
clined  to  think  that  his  acquaintance  could  not  be  the  Miss 
Eldredge,  of  whose  beauty  he  had  heard  many  tales  among 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      469 

the  people  of  the  neighborhood.  The  other  young,  lady,  a 
tall,  reserved,  fair-haired  maiden,  answered  the  description 
considerably  better.  He  concluded,  therefore,  that  his  ac 
quaintance  must  be  a  visitor,  perhaps  a  dependent  and  com 
panion  ;  though  the  freedom  of  her  thought,  action,  and  way 
of  life  seemed  hardly  consistent  with  this  idea.  However, 
this  slight  incident  served  to  give  him  a  sort  of  connection 
with  the  family,  and  he  could  but  hope  that  some  further 
chance  would  introduce  him  within  what  he  fondly  called 
his  hereditary  walls.  He  had  come  to  think  of  this  as  a 
dreamland  ;  and  it  seemed  even  more  a  dreamland  now 
than  before  it  rendered  itself  into  actual  substance,  an  ol<7 
house  of  stone  and  timber  standing  within  its  park,  shaded 
about  with  its  ancestral  trees. 

But  thus,  at  all  events,  he  was  getting  himself  a  little 
wrought  into  the  net-work  of  human  life  around  him,  se- 

ded  as  his  position  had  at  first  seemed  to  be,  in  the  farm 
house  where  he  had  taken  up  his  lodgings.  For,  there  was 
the  Hospital  and  its  old  inhabitants,  in  whose  monotonous 
existence  he  soon  came  to  pass  for  something,  with  his  liveli 
ness  of  mind,  his  experience,  his  good  sense,  his  patience  as 
a  listener,  his  comparative  youth  even  —  his  power  of  adapt 
ing  himself  to  these  stiff  and  crusty  characters,  a  power 
learned  among  other  things  in  his  political  life,  where  he 
had  acquired  something  of  the  faculty  (good  or  bad  as 
might  be)  of  making  himself  all  things  to  all  men.  But 
though  he  amused  himself  with  them  all,  there  was  in  truth 
but  one  man  among  them  in  whom  he  really  felt  much  in 
terest  ;  and  that  one,  we  need  hardly  say,  was  Hammond. 
It  was  not  often  that  he  found  the  old  gentleman  in  a  con- 
versible  mood  ;  always  courteous,  indeed,  but  generally  cool 
and  reserved ;  often  engaged  in  his  one  room,  to  which 
Middleton  had  never  yet  been  admitted,  though  he  had 
more  than  once  sent  in  his  name,  when  Hammond  was  not 
apparent  upon  the  bench  which,  by  common  consent  of  the 
Hospital,  was  appropriated  to  him. 


470  APPENDIX. 

One  day,  however,  notwithstanding  that  the  old  gentle 
man  was  confined  to  his  room  by  indisposition,  he  ventured 
to  inquire  at  the  door,  and,  considerably  to  his  surprise,  was 
admitted.  He  found  Hammond  in  his  easy-chair,  at  a  table, 
with  writing-materials  before  him  :  and  as  Middleton  en 
tered,  the  old  gentleman  looked  at  him  with  a  stern,  fixed 
regard,  which,  however,  did  not  seem  to  imply  any  particu 
lar  displeasure  towards  this  visitor,  but  rather  a  severe  way 
of  regarding  mankind  in  general.  Middleton  looked  curi 
ously  around  the  small  apartment,  to  see  what  modification 
the  character  of  the  man  had  had  upon  the  customary  furni 
ture  of  the  Hospital,  and  how  much  of  individuality  he  had 
given  to  that  general  type.  There  was  a  shelf  of  books, 
and  a  row  of  them  on  the  mantel-piece ;  works  of  political 
economy,  they  appeared  to  be,  statistics  and  things  of  that 
sort ;  very  dry  reading,  with  which,  however,  Middleton's 
experience  as  a  politician  had  made  him  acquainted.  Be 
sides  these  there  were  a  few  works  on  local  antiquities,  a 
county-history  borrowed  from  the  Master's  library,  in  which 
Hammond  appeared  to  have  been  lately  reading. 

"  They  are  delightful  reading,"  observed  Middleton, 
"  these  old  county-histories,  with  their  great  folio  volumes 
and  their  minute  account  of  the  affairs  of  families  and  the 
genealogies,  and  descents  of  estates,  bestowing  as  much 
blessed  space  on  a  few  hundred  acres  as  other  historians 
give  to  a  principality.  I  fear  that  in  my  own  country  we 
shall  never  have  anything  of  this  kind.  Our  space  is  so  vast 
that  we  shall  never  come  to  know  and  love  it,  inch  by  inch, 
as  the  English  antiquarians  do  the  tracts  of  country  with 
which  they  deal ;  and  besides,  our  land  is  always  likely  to  lack 
the  interest  that  belongs  to  English  estates ;  for  where  land 
changes  its  ownership  every  few  years,  it  does  not  become 
imbued  with  the  personalities  of  the  people  who  live  on  it. 
It  is  but  so  much  grass  ;  so  much  dirt,  where  a  succession 
of  people  have  dwelt  too  little  to  make  it  really  their  own. 
But  I  have  found  a  pleasure  that  I  had  no  conception  of  be 
fore,  in  reading  some  of  the  English  local  histories." 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  471 

"  It  is  not  a  usual  course  of  reading  for  a  transitory  vis 
itor,"  said  Hammond.  u  What  could  induce  you  to  under 
take  it  ?  " 

**  Simply  the  wish,  so  common  and  natural  with  Ameri 
cans,"  said  Middleton  — k%  the  wish  to  find  out  something 
about  my  kindred  —  the  local  origin  of  my  own  family." 

"  You  do  not  show  your  wisdom  in  this,"  said  his  visitor. 
"America  had  better  recognize  the  fact  that  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  England,  and  look  upon  itself  as  other  nations 
and  people  do,  as  existing  on  its  own  hook.  I  never  heard 
of  any  people  looking  back  to  the  country  of  their  remote 
origin  in  the  way  the  Anglo-Americans  do.  For  instance, 
England  is  made  up  of  many  alien  races,  German,  Danish. 
Norman,  and  what  not :  it  has  received  large  accessions  of 
population  at  a  later  date  than  the  settlement  of  the  United 
States.  Yet  these  families  melt  into  the  great  homogene 
ous  mass  of  Englishmen,  and  look  back  no  more  to  any 
other  country.  There  are  in  this  vicinity  many  descendants 
of  the  French  Huguenots ;  but  they  care  no  more  for 
France  than  for  Timbuctoo,  reckoning  themselves  only 
Englishmen,  as  if  they  were  descendants  of  the  aboriginal 
Britons.  Let  it  be  so  with  you." 

"  So  it  might  be,"  replied  Middleton,  "  only  that  our  re 
lations  with  England  remain  far  more  numerous  than  our 
disconnections,  through  the  bonds  of  history,  of  literature, 
of  all  that  makes  up  the  memories,  and  much  that  makes 
up  the  present  interests  of  a  people.  And  therefore  I  must 
still  continue  to  pore  over  these  old  folios,  and  hunt  around 
these  precincts,  spending  thus  the  little  idle  time  I  am  likely 
to  have  in  a  busy  life.  Possibly  finding  little  to  my  pur 
pose  ;  but  that  is  quite  a  secondary  consideration." 

"  If  you  choose  to  tell  me  precisely  what  your  aims  are," 
said  Hammond,  "  it  is  possible  I  might  give  you  some  little 
assistance." 

May  1th,  Friday.  —  Middleton  was  in  fact  more  than 
half  ashamed  of  the  dreams  which  he  had  cherished  before 


472  APPENDIX. 

coming  to  England,  and  which  since,  at  times,  had  been 
very  potent  with  him,  assuming  as  strong  a  tinge  of  reality 
as  those  [scenes  ?]  into  which  he  had  strayed.  He  could  not 
prevail  with  himself  to  disclose  fully  to  this  severe,  and,  as 
he  thought,  cynical  old  man  how  strong  within  him  was  the 
sentiment  that  impelled  him  to  connect  himself  with  the  old 
life  of  England,  to  join  on  the  broken  thread  of  ancestry 
and  descent,  and  feel  every  link  well  established.  But  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  ought  not  to  lose  this  fair  opportunity 
of  gaining  some  light  on  the  abstruse  field  of  his  researches  ; 
and  he  therefore  explained  to  Hammond  that  he  had  reason, 
from  old  family  traditions,  to  believe  that  he  brought  with 
him  a  fragment  of  a  history  that,  if  followed  out,  might 
lead  to  curious  results.  He  told  him,  in  a  tone  half  serious, 
what  he  had  heard  respecting  the  quarrel  of  the  two  broth 
ers,  and  the  Bloody  Footstep,  the  impress  of  which  was  said 
to  remain,  as  a  lasting  memorial  of  the  tragic  termination 
of  that  enmity.  At  this  point,  Hammond  interrupted  him. 
He  had  indeed,  at  various  points  of  the  narrative,  nodded 
and  smiled  mysteriously,  as  if  looking  into  his  mind  and 
seeing  something  there  analogous  to  what  he  was  listening 
to.  He  now  spoke. 

"  This  is  curious,"  said  he.  "  Did  you  know  that  there 
is  a  manor-house  in  this  neighborhood,  the  family  of  which 
prides  itself  on  having  such  a  blood-stained  threshold  as  you 
have  now  described  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Middleton,  greatly  interested. 
«  Where  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  old  manor-house  of  Smithell's,"  replied  Ham 
mond,  "  one  of  those  old  wood  and  timber  [plaster  ?]  man 
sions,  which  are  among  the  most  ancient  specimens  of  do 
mestic  architecture  in  England.  The  house  has  now  passed 
into  the  female  line,  and  by  marriage  has  been  for  two  or 
three  generations  in  possession  of  another  family.  But  the 
blood  of  the  old  inheritors  is  still  in  the  family.  The  hoase 
itself,  or  portions  of  it,  are  thought  to  date  back  quite  as  far 
as  the  Conquest." 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      473 

"  SmithelTs  ?  "  said  Middleton.  "  Why,  I  have  seen  that 
old  house  from  a  distance,  and  have  felt  no  little  interest  in 
its  antique  aspect.  And  it  has  a  Bloody  Footstep !  Would 
it  be  possible  for  a  stranger  to  get  an  opportunity  to  inspect 
it?" 

"  Unquestionably,"  said  Hammond  ;  "  nothing  easier.  It 
is  but  a  moderate  distance  from  here,  and  if  you  can  mod 
erate  your  young  footsteps,  and  your  American  quick  walk, 
to  an  old  man's  pace,  I  would  go  there  with  you  some  day. 
In  this  languor  and  ennui  of  my  life,  I  spend  some  time  in 
local  antiquarianism,  and  perhaps  I  might  assist  you  in 
tracing  out  how  far  these  traditions  of  yours  may  have  any 
connection  with  reality.  It  would  be  curious,  would  it  not, 
if  you  had  come,  after  two  hundred  years,  to  piece  out  a 
story  which  may  have  been  as  much  a  mystery  in  England 
as  there  in  America  ?  " 

An  engagement  was  made  for  a  walk  to  SmithelTs  the 
ensuing  day  ;  and  meanwhile  Middleton  entered  more  fully 
into  what  he  had  received  from  family  traditions  and  what 
he  had  thought  out  for  himself  on  the  matter  in  question. 

"  Are  you  aware,"  asked  Hammond,  "  that  there  was 
formerly  a  title  in  this  family,  now  in  abeyance,  and  which 
the  heirs  have  at  various  times  claimed,  and  are  at  this  mo 
ment  claiming  ?  Do  you  know,  too,  —  but  you  can  scarcely 
know  it,  —  that  it  has  been  surmised  by  some  that  there  is 
an  insecurity  in  the  title  to  the  estate,  and  has  always  been ; 
so  that  the  possessors  have  lived  in  some  apprehension,  from 
time  immemorial,  that  another  heir  would  appear  and  take 
from  them  the  fair  inheritance  ?  It  is  a  singular  coinci 
dence." 

"  Very  strange,"  exclaimed  Middleton.  "  No ;  I  was 
not  aware  of  it ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  I  should  not  alto 
gether  like  to  come  forward  in  the  light  of  a  claimant.  But 
this  is  a  dream,  surely  !  " 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  that  you 
come  here  in  a  very  critical  moment ;  and  singularly  enough 


474  APPENDIX. 

there  is  a  perplexity,  a  difficulty,  that  has  endured  for  as 
long  a  time  as  when  your  ancestors  emigrated,  that  is  still 
rampant  within  the  bowels,  as  I  may  say,  of  the  family. 
Of  course,  it  is  too  like  a  romance  that  you  should  be  able 
to  establish  any  such  claim  as  would  have  a  valid  influence 
on  this  matter  ;  but  still,  being  here  on  the  spot,  it  may  be 
worth  while,  if  merely  as  a  matter  of  amusement,  to  make/ 
some  researches  into  this  matter." 

"  Surely  I  will,"  said  Middleton,  with  a  smile,  which  con 
cealed  more  earnestness  than  he  liked  to  show ;  "  as  to  the 
title,  a  Republican  cannot  be  supposed  to  think  twice  about 
such  a  bagatelle.  The  estate !  —  that  might  be  a  more  seri 
ous  consideration." 

They  continued  to  talk  on  the  subject ;  and  Middleton 
learned  that  the  present  possessor  of  the  estates  was  a  gen 
tleman  nowise  distinguished  from  hundreds  of  other  English 
gentlemen ;  a  country  squire  modified  in  accordance  with 
the  type  of  to-day,  a  frank,  free,  friendly  sort  of  a  person 
enough,  who  had  travelled  on  the  Continent,  who  employed 
himself  much  in  field-sports,  who  was  unmarried,  and  had  a 
sister  who  was  reckoned  among  the  beauties  of  the  county. 

While  the  conversation  was  thus  going  on,  to  Middleton's 
astonishment  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  room, 
and,  without  waiting  for  a  response,  it  was  opened,  and  there 
appeared  at  it  the  same  young  woman  whom  he  had  already 
met.  She  came  in  with  perfect  freedom  and  familiarity, 
and  was  received  quietly  by  the  old  gentleman  ;  who,  how 
ever,  by  his  manner  towards  Middleton,  indicated  that  he 
was  now  to  take  his  leave.  He  did  so,  after  settling  the 
hour  at  which  the  excursion  of  the  next  day  was  to  take 
place.  This  arranged,  he  departed,  with  much  to  think  of, 
and  a  light  glimmering  through  the  confused  labyrinth  of 
thoughts  which  had  been  unilluminated  hitherto. 

To  say  the  truth,  he  questioned  within  himself  whether  it 
were  not  better  to  get  as  quickly  as  he  could  out  of  the 
vicinity  ;  and,  at  any  rate,  not  to  put  anything  of  earnest  in 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  475 

what  had  hitherto  been  nothing  more  than  a  romance  to 
him.  There  was  something  very  dark  and  sinister  in  the 
events  of  family  history,  which  now  assumed  a  reality  that 
they  had  never  before  worn ;  so  much  tragedy,  so  much 
hatred,  had  been  thrown  into  that  deep  pit,  and  buried 
under  the  accumulated  debris,  the  fallen  leaves,  the  rust 
and  dust  of  more  than  two  centuries,  that  it  seemed  not 
worth  while  to  dig  it  up  ;  for  perhaps  the  deadly  influences, 
which  it  had  taken  so  much  time  to  hide,  might  still  be  lurk 
ing  there,  and  become  potent  if  he  now  uncovered  thenio 
There  was  something  that  startled  him,  in  the  strange,  wild 
light,  which  gleamed  from  the  old  man's  eyes,  as  he  threw 
out  the  suggestions  which  had  opened  this  prospect  to  him. 
What  right  had  he  —  an  American,  Republican,  discon 
nected  with  this  country  so  long,  alien  from  its  habits  of 
thought  and  life,  reverencing  none  of  the  things  which  Eng 
lishmen  reverenced  —  what  right  had  he  to  come  with  these 
musty  claims  from  the  dim  past,  to  disturb  them  in  the  life 
that  belonged  to  them  ?  There  was  a  higher  and  a  deeper 
law  than  any  connected  with  ancestral  claims  which  he 
could  assert ;  and  he  had  an  idea  that  the  law  bade  him 
keep  to  the  country  which  his  ancestor  had  chosen  and  to 
its  institutions,  and  not  meddle  nor  make  with  England. 
The  roots  of  his  family  tree  could  not  reach  under  the 
ocean ;  he  was  at  most  but  a  seedling  from  the  parent  tree. 
While  thus  meditating  he  found  that  his  footsteps  had 
brought  him  unawares  within  sight  of  the  old  manor-house 
of  Smithell's  ;  and  that  he  was  wandering  in  a  path  which, 
if  he  followed  it  further,  would  bring  him  to  an  entrance  in 
one  of  the  wings  of  the  mansion.  With  a  sort  of  shame 
upon  him,  he  went  forward,  and,  leaning  against  a  tree, 
looked  at  what  he  considered  the  home  of  his  ancestors. 

May  9th,  Sunday.  —  At  the  time  appointed,  the  two  com 
panions  set  out  on  their  little  expedition,  the  old  man  in  his 
Hospital  uniform,  the  long  black  mantle,  with  the  bear  and 
ragged  staff  engraved  in  silver  on  the  breast,  and  Middle- 


476  APPENDIX. 

ton  in  the  plain  costume  which  he  had  adopted  in  these 
wanderings  about  the  country.  On  their  way,  Hammond 
was  not  very  communicative,  occasionally  dropping  some 
shrewd  remark  with  a  good  deal  of  acidity  in  it ;  now  and 
then,  too,  favoring  his  companion  with  some  reminiscence  of 
local  antiquity;  but  oftenest  silent.  Thus  they  went  on, 
and  entered  the  park  of  Pemberton  Manor  by  a  by-path, 
over  a  stile  and  one  of  those  footways,  which  are  always  so 
well  worth  threading  out  in  England,  leading  the  pedestrian 
into  picturesque  and  characteristic  scenes,  when  the  high 
road  would  show  him  nothing  except  what  was  common 
place  and  uninteresting.  Now  the  gables  of  the  old  manor- 
house  appeared  before  them,  rising  amidst  the  hereditary 
woods,  which  doubtless  dated  from  a  time  beyond  the  days 
which  Middleton  fondly  recalled,  when  his  ancestors  had 
walked  beneath  their  shade.  On  each  side  of  them  were 
thickets  and  copses  of  fern,  amidst  which  they  saw  the  hares 
peeping  out  to  gaze  upon  them,  occasionally  running  across 
the  path,  and  comporting  themselves  like  creatures  tliat  felt 
themselves  under  some  sort  of  protection  from  the  outrages 
of  man,  though  they  knew  too  much  of  his  destructive  char 
acter  to  trust  him  too  far.  Pheasants,  too,  rose  dose  beside 
them,  and  winged  but  a  little  way  before  they  alighted ; 
they  likewise  knew,  or  seemed  to  know,  that  their  hour  was 
not  yet  come.  On  all  sides  in  these  woods,  these  wastes, 
these  beasts  and  birds,  there  was  a  character  that  was 
neither  wild  nor  tame.  Man  had  laid  his  grasp  on  them 
all,  and  done  enough  to  redeem  them  from  barbarism,  but 
had  stopped  short  of  domesticating  them  ;  although  Nature, 
in  the  wildest  thing  there,  acknowledged  the  powerful  and 
pervading  influence  of  cultivation. 

Arriving  at  a  side  door  of  the  mansion,  Hammond  rang 
the  bell,  and  a  servant  soon  appeared.  He  seemed  to  know 
the  old  man,  and  immediately  acceded  to  his  request  to  be 
permitted  to  show  his  companion  the  house ;  although  it 
was  not  precisely  a  show-house,  nor  was  this  the  hour  when 


THE  ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP.  477 

strangers  were  usually  admitted.  They  entered ;  and  the 
servant  did  not  give  himself  the  trouble  to  act  as  a  cicerone 
to  the  two  visitants,  but  carelessly  said  to  the  old  gentle- 
man  that  he  knew  the  rooms,  and  that  he  would  leave  him 
to  discourse  to  his  friend  about  them.  Accordingly,  they 
went  into  the  old  hall,  a  dark  oaken-panelled  room,  of  no 
great  height,  with  many  doors  opening  into  it.  There  was 
a  fire  burning  on  the  hearth ;  indeed,  it  was  the  custom  of 
the  house  to  keep  it  up  from  morning^  to  night ;  and  in  the 
damp,  chill  climate  of  England,  there  is  seldom  a  day  in 
some  part  of  which  a  fire  is  not  pleasant  to  feel.  Hammond 
here  pointed  out  a  stuffed  fox,  to  which  some  story  of  a 
famous  chase  was  attached  ;  a  pair  of  antlers  of  enormous 
size  ;  and  some  old  family  pictures,  so  blackened  with  time 
and  neglect  that  Middleton  could  not  well  distinguish  their 
features,  though  curious  to  do  so,  as  hoping  to  see  there  the 
lineaments  of  some  with  whom  he  might  claim  kindred.  It 
was  a  venerable  apartment,  and  gave  a  good  foretaste  of 
what  they  might  hope  to  find  in  the  rest  of  the  mansion. 

But  when  they  had  inspected  it  pretty  thoroughly,  and 
were  ready  to  proceed,  an  elderly  gentleman  entered  the 
hall,  and,  seeing  Hammond,  addressed  him  in  a  kindly, 
familiar  way;  not  indeed  as  an  equal  friend,  but  with  a 
pleasant  and  not  irksome  conversation.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  here  again,"  said  he.  u  What  ?  I  have  an  hour  of 
leisure ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  the  day  hangs  rather  heavy 
till  the  shooting  season  begins.  Come  ;  as  you  have  a  friend 
with  you,  I  will  be  your  cicerone  myself  about  the  house, 
and  show  you  whatever  mouldy  objects  of  interest  it  con 
tains." 

He  then  graciously  noticed  the  old  man's  companion,  but 
without  asking  or  seeming  to  expect  an  introduction  ;  for, 
after  a  careless  glance  at  him,  he  had  evidently  sec  him 
down  as  a  person  without  social  claims,  a  young  man  in  the 
rank  of  life  fitted  to  associate  with  an  inmate  of  Pember- 
ton's  Hospital.  And  it  must  be  noticed  that  his  treatment 


478  APPENDIX. 

of  Middleton  was  not  on  that  account  the  less  kind,  though 
far  from  being  so  elaborately  courteous  as  if  he  had  met 
him  as  an  equal.  "You  have  had  something  of  a  walk," 
said  he,  "  and  it  is  a  rather  hot  day.  The  beer  of  Pember- 
ton  Manor  has  been  reckoned  good  these  hundred  years ; 
will  you  taste  it  ?  " 

Hammond  accepted  the  offer,  and  the  beer  was  brought 
in  a  foaming  tankard ;  but  Middleton  declined  it,  for  in 
truth  there  was  a  singular  emotion  in  his  breast,  as  if  the 
old  enmity,  the  ancient  injuries,  were  not  yet  atoned  for, 
and  as  if  he  must  not  accept  the  hospitality  of  one  who  rep 
resented  his  hereditary  foe.  He  felt,  too,  as  if  there  were 
something  unworthy,  a  certain  want  of  fairness,  in  entering 
clandestinely  the  house,  and  talking  with  its  occupant  under 
a  veil,  as  it  were ;  and  had  he  seen  clearly  how  to  do  it,  he 
would  perhaps  at  that  moment  have  fairly  told  Mr.  Eldredge 
that  he  brought  with  him  the  character  of  kinsman,  and 
must  be  received  on  that  grade  or  none.  But  it  was  not 
easy  to  do  this ;  and  after  all,  there  was  no  clear  reason 
why  he  should  do  it ;  so  he  let  the  matter  pass,  merely  de 
clining  to  take  the  refreshment,  and  keeping  himself  quiet 
and  retired. 

Squire  Eldredge  seemed  to  be  a  good,  ordinary  sort  of 
gentleman,  reasonably  well  educated,  and  with  few  ideas 
beyond  his  estate  and  neighborhood,  though  he  had  once 
held  a  seat  in  Parliament  for  part  of  a  term.  Middleton 
could  not  but  contrast  him,  with  an  inward  smile,  with  the 
shrewd,  alert  politicians,  their  faculties  all  sharpened  to  the 
utmost,  whom  he  had  known  and  consorted  with  in  the 
American  Congress.  Hammond  had  slightly  informed  him 
that  his  companion  was  an  American  ;  and  Mr.  Eldredge 
immediately  gave  proof  of  the  extent  of  his  knowledge  of 
that  country,  by  inquiring  whether  he  came  from  the  State 
of  New  England,  and  whether  Mr.  Webster  was  still  Presi 
dent  of  the  United  States  ;  questions  to  which  Middleton  re 
turned  answers  that  led  to  no  further  conversation.  These 


THE  ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP.  479 

little  preliminaries  over,  they  continued  their  ramble  through 
the  house,  going  through  tortuous  passages,  up  and  down 
little  flights  of  steps,  and  entering  chambers  that  had  all 
the  charm  of  discoveries  of  hidden  regions ;  loitering  about, 
in  short,  in  a  labyrinth  calculated  to  put  the  head  into  a 
delightful  confusion.  Some  of  these  rooms  contained  their 
time-honored  furniture,  all  in  the  best  possible  repair,  heavy, 
dark,  polished ;  beds  that  had  been  marriage  beds  and  dy 
ing  beds  over  and  over  again ;  chairs  with  carved  backs  ; 
and  all  manner  of  old  world  curiosities ;  family  pictures, 
and  samplers,  and  embroidery  ;  fragments  of  tapestry ;  an 
inlaid  floor  ;  everything  having  a  story  to  it,  though,  to  say 
the  truth,  the  possessor  of  these  curiosities  made  but  a  bun 
gling  piece  of  work  in  telling  the  legends  connected  with 
them.  In  one  or  two  instances  Hammond  corrected  him. 

By  and  by  they  came  to  what  had  once  been  the  princi 
pal  bed-room  of  the  house  ;  though  its  gloom,  and  some  cir 
cumstances  of  family  misfortune  that  had  happened  long 
ago,  had  caused  it  to  fall  into  disrepute  in  latter  times ;  and 
it  was  now  called  the  Haunted  Chamber,  or  the  Ghost's 
Chamber.  The  furniture  of  this  room,  however,  was  par 
ticularly  rich  in  its  antique  magnificence  ;  and  one  of  the 
principal  objects  was  a  great  black  cabinet  of  ebony  and 
ivory,  such  as  may  often  be  seen  in  old  English  houses,  and 
perhaps  often  in  the  palaces  of  Italy,  in  which  country  they 
perhaps  originated.  This  present  cabinet  was  known  to 
have  been  in  the  house  as  long  ago  as  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  how  much  longer  neither  tradition  nor  rec 
ord  told.  Hammond  particularly  directed  Middleton's  at 
tention  to  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  this  house,"  said  he,  "  better  worth 
your  attention  than  that  cabinet.  Consider  its  plan  ;  it  rep 
resents  a  stately  mansion,  with  pillars,  an  entrance,  with  a 
lofty  flight  of  steps,  windows,  and  everything  perfect.  Ex 
amine  it  well." 

There  was  such  an  emphasis  in  the  old  man's  way  of 


480  APPENDIX. 

speaking  that  Middleton  turned  suddenly  round  from  all 
that  he  had  been  looking  at,  and  fixed  his  whole  attention 
on  the  cabinet ;  and  strangely  enough,  it  seemed  to  be  the 
representative,  in  small,  of  something  that  he  had  seen  in  a 
dream.  To  say  the  truth,  if  some  cunning  workman  had 
been  employed  to  copy  his  idea  of  the  old  family  mansion, 
on  a  scale  of  half  an  inch  to  a  yard,  and  in  ebony  and  ivory 
instead  of  stone,  he  could  not  have  produced  a  closer  imita 
tion.  Everything  was  there. 

"  This  is  miraculous !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  I  do  not  under 
stand  it." 

"  Your  friend  seems  to  be  curious  in  these  matters," 
said  Mr.  Eldredge  graciously.  "  Perhaps  he  is  of  some 
trade  that  makes  this  sort  of  manufacture  particularly  in 
teresting  to  him.  You  are  quite  at  liberty,  my  friend,  to 
open  the  cabinet  and  inspect  it  as  minutely  as  you  wish. 
It  is  an  article  that  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  an  obscure 
portion  of  our  family  history.  Look,  here  is  the  key,  and 
the  mode  of  opening  the  outer  door  of  the  palace,  as  we 
may  well  call  it."  So  saying,  he  threw  open  the  outer 
door,  and  disclosed  within  the  mimic  likeness  of  a  stately 
entrance  hall,  with  a  floor  chequered  of  ebony  and  ivory. 
There  were  other  doors  that  seemed  to  open  into  apartments 
in  the  interior  of  the  palace  ;  but  when  Mr.  Eldredge  threw 
them  likewise  wide,  they  proved  to  be  drawers  and  secret 
receptacles,  where  papers,  jewels,  money,  anything  that  it 
was  desirable  to  store  away  secretly,  might  be  kept. 

u  You  said,  sir,"  said  Middleton,  thoughtfully,  "  that  your 
family  history  contained  matter  of  interest  in  reference  to 
this  cabinet.  Might  I  inquire  what  those  legends  are  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Eldredge,  musing  a  little.  "I 
see  no  reason  why  I  should  have  any  idle  concealment 
about  the  matter,  especially  to  a  foreigner  and  a  man  whom 
I  am  never  likely  to  see  again.  You  must  know,  then,  my 
friend,  that  there  was  once  a  time  when  this  cabinet  was 
known  to  contain  the  fate  of  the  estate  and  its  possessors  j 


THE  ANCESTRAL   FOOTSTEP.  481 

and  if  it  had  held  all  that  it  was  supposed  to  hold,  I  should 
not  now  be  the  lord  of  Pemberton  Manor,  nor  the  claimant 
of  an  ancient  title.  But  my  father,  and  his  father  before 
him,  and  his  father  besides,  have  held  the  estate  and  pros 
pered  on  it ;  and  I  think  we  may  fairly  conclude  now  that 
the  cabinet  contains  nothing  except  what  we  see." 

And  he  rapidly  again  threw  open  one  after  another  all 
the  numerous  drawers  and  receptacles  of  the  cabinet. 

"  It  is  an  interesting  object,"  said  Middleton,  after  look 
ing  very  closely  and  with  great  attention  at  it,  being  pressed 
thereto,  indeed,  by  the  owner's  good  natured  satisfaction  in 
possessing  this  rare  article  of  vertu.  "  It  is  admirable  work," 
repeated  he,  drawing  back.  "  That  mosaic  floor,  especially, 
is  done  with  an  art  and  skill  that  I  never  saw  equalled." 

There  was  something  strange  and  altered  in  Middletoo's 
tones,  that  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  Eldredge.  Looking 
at  him,  he  saw  that  he  had  grown  pale,  and  had  a  rather 
bewildered  air. 

"Is  your  friend  ill  ?  "  said  he.  "  He  has  not  our  English 
ruggedness  of  look.  He  would  have  done  better  to  take  a 
sip  of  the  cool  tankard,  and  a  slice  of  the  cold  beef.  He 
finds  no  such  food  and  drink  as  that  in  his  own  country,  I 
warrant." 

"  His  color  has  come  back,"  responded  Hammond,  briefly. 
"He  does  not  need  any  refreshment,  I  think,  except,  per 
haps,  the  open  air." 

In  fact,  Middleton,  recovering  himself,  apologized  to  Mr. 
Hammond  [Eldredge  ?]  ;  and  as  they  had  now  seen  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  house,  the  two  visitants  took  their  leave, 
with  many  kindly  offers  on  Mr.  Eldredge's  part  to  permit 
the  young  man  to  view  the  cabinet  whenever  he  wished.  As 
they  went  out  of  the  house  (it  was  by  another  door  than 
that  which  gave  them  entrance).  Hammond  laid  his  hand  on 
Middleton' s  shoulder  and  pointed  to  a  stone  on  the  thresh 
old,  on  which  he  was  about  to  set  his  foot.  "  Take  care !  n 
said  he.  "  It  is  the  Bloody  Footstep.'' 

VOL.  XI.  31 


482  APPENDIX. 

Middleton  looked  down  and  saw  something,  indeed,  very 
like  the  shape  of  a  footprint,  with  a  hue  very  like  that  of 
blood.  It  was  a  twilight  sort  of  a  place,  beneath  a  porch, 
which  was  much  overshadowed  by  trees  and  shrubbery.  It 
might  have  been  blood  ;  but  he  rather  thought,  in  his  wicked 
skepticism,  that  it  was  a  natural,  reddish  stain  in  the  stone. 
He  measured  his  own  foot,  however,  in  the  Bloody  Foot 
step,  and  went  on. 

May  lO^A,  Monday.  —  This  is  the  present  aspect  of  the 
story  :  Middleton  is  the  descendant  of  a  family  long  settled 
in  the  United  States ;  his  ancestor  having  emigrated  to  New 
England  with  the  Pilgrims  ;  or,  perhaps,  at  a  still  earlier 
date,  to  Virginia  with  Raleigh's  colonists.    There  had  been  a 
family  dissension,  —  a  bitter  hostility  between  two  brothers 
in  England ;  on  account,  probably,  of  a  love  affair,  the  two 
both  being  attached  to  the  same  lady.     By  the  influence  of 
the  family  on  both  sides,  the  young  lady  had  formed  an  en 
gagement  with  the  elder  brother,  although  her  affections  had 
settled  on  the  younger.     The  marriage  was  about  to  take 
place  when  the  younger  brother  and  the  bride  both  disap 
peared,  and  were  never  heard  of  with  any  certainty  after 
wards  ;  but  it  was  believed  at  the  time  that  he  had  been 
killed,  and  in  proof  of  it  a  bloody  footstep  remained  on  the 
threshold  of  the  ancestral  mansion.     There   were  rumors, 
afterwards,  traditionally  continued  to  the  present  day,  that 
the  younger  brother  and  the  bride  were  seen,  and  together, 
in  England  ;  and  that  some  voyager  across    the  sea  had 
found  them  living  together,  husband  and  wife,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic.    But  the  elder  brother  became  a  moody 
and  reserved  man,  never  married,  and  left  the  inheritance 
to  the  children  of  a  third  brother,  who  then  became  the  rep 
resentative  of  the  family  in  England ;  and  the  better  au 
thenticated   story  was  that  the  second  brother  had  really 
been  slain,  and  that  the  young  lady  (for  all  the  parties  may 
have  been  Catholic)  had  gone  to  the   Continent  and  taken 
the  veil  there.     Such  was  the  family  history  as  known  or 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      483 

surmised  in  England,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
manor-house,  where  the  Bloody  Footstep  still  remained  on 
the  threshold  ;  and  the  posterity  of  the  third  brother  still 
held  the  estate,  and  perhaps  were  claimants  of  an  ancient 
baronage,  long  in  abeyance. 

Now,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  second  brother 
and  the  young  lady  had  really  been  married,  and  became 
the  parents  of  a  posterity,  still  extant,  of  which  the  Mid- 
dleton  of  the  romance  is  the  surviving  male.     Perhaps  he 
had  changed  his  name,  being  so  much  tortured  with  the  evil 
and  wrong  that  had  sprung  up  in  his  family,  so  remorseful, 
so  outraged,  that  he  wished  to  disconnect  himself  with  all 
the  past,  and  begin  life  quite  anew  in  a  new  world.     But 
both  he  and  his  wife,  though  happy  in  one  another,  had 
been  remorsefully  and  sadly  so ;  and,  with  such  feelings, 
they  had  never  again   communicated  with  their  respective 
families,  nor  had  given  their  children  the  means  of  doing 
so.     There  must,  I  think,  have  been  something  nearly  ap 
proaching  to  guilt  on  the   second  brother's   part,  and  the 
bride  should  have  broken  a  solemnly  plighted  troth  to  the 
elder  brother,  breaking  away  from  him  when  almost  his 
wife.     The   elder  brother  had   been  known  to  have  been 
wounded  at  the  time  of  the  second  brother's  disappearance  ; 
and  it  had  been  the  surmise  that  he  had  received  this  hurt 
in  the  personal  conflict  in  which  the  latter  was  slain.     But 
in  truth  the  second  brother  had  stabbed  him  in  the  emer 
gency  of  being  discovered  in  the  act  of  escaping  with  the 
bride ;    and   this  was  what  weighed   upon   his   conscience 
throughout  life  in  America.    The  American  family  had  pro 
longed  itself  through  various  fortunes,  and  all  the  ups  and 
downs  incident  to  our  institutions,  until  the  present  day. 
They  had  some  old  family  documents,  which  had  been  rather 
carelessly  kept ;  but  the  present   representative,  being  an 
educated  man,  had  looked  over  them,  and  found  one  which 
interested  him  strongly.      It  was  —  what  was   it  ?  —  per 
haps  a  copy  of  a  letter  written  by  his  ancestor  on  his  death- 


484  APPENDIX. 

bed,  telling  his  real  name,  and  relating  the  above  incidents. 
These  incidents  had  come  down  in  a  vague,  wild  way,  tra 
ditionally,  in  the  American  family,  forming  a  wondrous  and 
incredible  legend,  which  Middleton  had  often  laughed  at, 
yet  been  greatly  interested  in ;  and  the  discovery  of  this 
document  seemed  to  give  a  certain  aspect  of  veracity  and 
reality  to  the  tradition.  Perhaps,  however,  the  document 
only  related  to  the  change  of  name,  and  made  reference  to 
certain  evidences  by  which,  if  any  descendant  of  the  family 
should  deem  it  expedient,  he  might  prove  his  hereditary 
identity.  The  legend  must  be  accounted  for  by  having  been 
gathered  from  the  talk  of  the  first  ancestor  and  his  wife. 
There  must  be  in  existence,  in  the  early  records  of  the  col 
ony,  an  authenticated  statement  of  this  change  of  name,  and 
satisfactory  proofs  that  the  American  family,  long  known  as 
Middleton,  were  really  a  branch  of  the  English  family  of 
Eldredge,  or  whatever.  And  in  the  legend,  though  not  in 
the  written  document,  there  must  be  an  account  of  a  cer 
tain  magnificent,  almost  palatial  residence,  which  Middleton 
shall  presume  to  be  the  ancestral  home ;  and  in  this  palace 
there  shall  be  said  to  be  a  certain  secret  chamber,  or  recep 
tacle,  where  is  reposited  a  document  that  shall  complete  the 
evidence  of  the  genealogical  descent. 

Middleton  is  still  a  young  man,  but  already  a  distin 
guished  one  in  his  own  country  ;  he  has  entered  early  into 
politics,  been  sent  to  Congress,  but  having  met  with  some 
disappointments  in  his  ambitious  hopes,  and  being  disgusted 
with  the  fierceness  of  political  contests  in  our  country,  he 
has  come  abroad  for  recreation  and  rest.  His  imagination 
has  dwelt  much,  in  his  boyhood,  on  the  legendary  story  of 
his  family ;  and  the  discovery  of  the  document  has  revived 
these  dreams.  He  determines  to  search  out  the  family 
mansion  ;  and  thus  he  arrives,  bringing  half  of  a  story, 
being  the  only  part  known  in  America,  to  join  it  on  to  the 
other  half,  which  is  the  only  part  known  in  England.  In 
an  introduction  I  must  do  the  best  I  can  to  state  his  side 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP,  485 

of  the  matter  to  the  reader,  he  having  communicated  it  to 
me  in  a  friendly  way,  at  the  Consulate ;  as  many  people 
have  communicated  quite  as  wild  pretensions  to  English 
genealogies. 

He  comes  to  the  midland  counties  of  England,  where  he 
conceives  his  claims  to  lie,  and  seeks  for  his  ancestral  home  ; 
but  there  are  difficulties  in  the  way  of  finding  it,  the  estates 
having  passed  into  the  female  line,  though  still  remaining 
in  the  blood.  By  and  by,  however,  he  comes  to  an  old 
town  where  there  is  one  of  the  charitable  institutions  bear 
ing  the  name  of  his  family,  by  \vhose  beneficence  it  had 
indeed  been  founded,  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time.  He  of 
course  becomes  interested  in  this  Hospital ;  he  finds  it  still 
going  on,  precisely  as  it  did  in  the  old  days  ;  and  all  the 
character  and  life  of  the  establishment  must  be  pictur 
esquely  described.  Here  he  gets  acquainted  with  an  old 
man,  an  inmate  of  the  Hospital,  who  (if  the  uncontrolla 
ble  fatality  of  the  story  will  permit)  must  have  an  active 
influence  on  the  ensuing  events.  I  suppose  him  to  have 
been  an  American,  but  to  have  fled  his  country  and  taken 
refuge  in  England  ;  he  shall  have  been  a  man  of  the  Nich 
olas  Biddle  stamp,  a  mighty  speculator,  the  ruin  of  whose 
schemes  had  crushed  hundreds  of  people,  and  Middleton's 
father  among  the  rest.  Here  he  had  quitted  the  activity  of 
his  mind,  as  well  as  he  could,  becoming  a  local  antiquary, 
etc.,  and  he  has  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  family 
history  of  the  Eldredges,  knowing  more  about  it  than  the 
members  of  the  family  themselves  do.  He  had  known  in 
America  (from  Middleton's  father,  who  was  his  friend)  the 
legends  preserved  in  this  branch  of  the  family,  and  perhaps 
had  been  struck  by  the  way  in  which  they  fit  into  the  Eng 
lish  legends  ;  at  any  rate,  this  strikes  him  when  Middleton 
tells  him  his  story  and  shows  him  the  document  respecting 
the  change  of  name.  After  various  conversations  together 
(in  which,  however,  the  old  man  keeps  the  secret  of  his 
own  identity,  and  indeed  acts  as  mysteriously  as  possible) , 


486  APPENDIX. 

they  go  together  to  visit  the  ancestral  mansion.  Perhaps  it 
should  not  be  in  their  first  visit  that  the  cabinet,  represent 
ing  the  stately  mansion,  shall  be  seen.  But  the  Bloody 
Footstep  may ;  which  shall  interest  Middleton  much,  both 
because  Hammond  has  told  him  the  English  tradition  re 
specting  it,  and  because  too  the  legends  of  the  American 
family  made  some  obscure  allusions  to  his  ancestor  having 
left  blood  —  a  bloody  footstep  —  on  the  ancestral  threshold. 
This  is  the  point  to  which  the  story  has  now  been  sketched 
out.  Middleton  finds  a  commonplace  old  English  country 
gentleman  in  possession  of  the  estate,  where  his  forefathers 
have  lived  in  peace  for  many  generations ;  but  there  must 
be  circumstances  contrived  which  shall  cause  Middleton's 
conduct  to  be  attended  by  no  end  of  turmoil  and  trouble. 
The  old  Hospitaller,  I  suppose,  must  be  the  malicious  agent 
in  this ;  and  his  malice  must  be  motived  in  some  satisfactory 
way.  The  more  serious  question,  what  shall  be  the  nature 
of  this  tragic  trouble,  and  how  can  it  be  brought  about  ? 

May  \\th,  Tuesday.  —  How  much  better  would  it  have 
been  if  this  secret,  which  seemed  so  golden,  had  remained 
in  the  obscurity  in  which  two  hundred  years  had  buried  it ! 
That  deep,  old,  grass-grown  grave  being  opened,  out  from 
it  streamed  into  the  sunshine  the  old  fatalities,  the  old 
crimes,  the  old  misfortunes,  the  sorrows,  that  seemed  to 
have  departed  from  the  family  forever.  But  it  was  too  late 
now  to  close  it  up ;  he  must  follow  out  the  thread  that  led 
him  on,  —  the  thread  of  fate,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  so ; 
but  rather  the  impulse  of  an  evil  will,  a  stubborn  self-inter- 
est,  a  desire  for  certain  objects  of  ambition  which  were  pre~ 
ferred  to  what  yet  were  recognized  as  real  goods.  Thus 
reasoned,  thus  raved,  Eldredge,  as  he  considered  the  things 
that  he  had  done,  and  still  intended  to  do  ;  nor  did  these 
perceptions  make  the  slightest  difference  in  his  plans,  nor 
in  the  activity  with  which  he  set  about  their  performance. 
For  this  purpose  he  sent  for  his  lawyer,  and  consulted  hhn 
on  the  feasibility  of  the  design  which  he  had  already  com« 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  487 

municdted  to  him  respecting  Middleton.  But  the  man  of 
law  shook  his  head,  and,  though  deferentially,  declined  to 
have  any  active  concern  with  the  matter  that  threatened  to 
lead  him  beyond  the  bounds  which  he  allowed  himself,  into 
a  seductive  but  perilous  region. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  with  some  earnestness,  "  you  had 
much  better  content  yourself  with  such  assistance  as  I  can 
professionally  and  consistently  give  you.  Believe  [me],  I 
am  willing  to  do  a  lawyer's  utmost,  and  to  do  more  would 
be  as  unsafe  for  the  client  as  for  the  legal  adviser." 

Thus  left  without  an  agent  and  an  instrument,  this  un 
fortunate  man  had  to  meditate  on  what  means  he  would  use 
to  gain  his  ends  through  his  own  unassisted  efforts.  In  the 
struggle  with  himself  through  which  he  had  passed,  he  had 
exhausted  pretty  much  all  the  feelings  that  he  had  to  be 
stow  on  this  matter  ;  and  now  he  was  ready  to  take  hold  of 
almost  any  temptation  that  might  present  itself,  so  long  as 
it  showed  a  good  prospect  of  success  and  a  plausible  chance 
of  impunity.  While  he  was  thus  musing,  he  heard  a  female 
voice  chanting  some  song,  like  a  bird's  among  the  pleasant 
foliage  of  the  trees,  and  soon  he  saw  at  the  end  of  a  wood- 
walk  Alice,  with  her  basket  on  her  arm,  passing  on  toward 
the  village.  She  looked  towards  him  as  she  passed,  but 
made  no  pause  nor  yet  hastened  her  steps,  not  seeming  to 
think  it  worth  her  while  to  be  influenced  by  him.  He  hur 
ried  forward  and  overtook  her. 

So  there  was  this  poor  old  gentleman,  his  comfort  utterly 
overthrown,  decking  his  white  hair  and  wrinkled  brow  with 
the  semblance  of  a  coronet,  and  only  hoping  that  the  reality 
might  crown  and  bless  him  before  he  was  laid  in  the  an 
cestral  tomb.  It  was  a  real  calamity  ;  though  by  no  means 
the  greatest  that  had  been  fished  up  out  of  the  pit  of  do 
mestic  discord  that  had  been  opened  anew  by  the  advent  of 
the  American  ;  and  by  the  use  which  had  been  ma(Je  of  it 
by  the  cantankerous  old  man  of  the  Hospital.  Middleton, 
as  he  looked  at  these  evil  consequences,  sometimes  regretted 


488  APPENDIX. 

that  he  had  not  listened  to  those  forebodings  which  had 
warned  him  back  on  the  eve  of  his  enterprise  ;  yet  such  was 
the  strange  entanglement  and  interest  which  had  wound 
about  him,  that  often  he  rejoiced  that  for  once  he  was  en 
gaged  in  something  that  absorbed  him  fully,  and  the  zeal 
for  the  development  of  which  made  him  careless  for  the  re 
sult  in  respect  to  its  good  or  evil,  but  only  desirous  that 
it  show  itself.  As  for  Alice,  she  seemed  to  skim  lightly 
through  all  these  matters,  whether  as  a  spirit  of  good  or  ill 
he  could  not  satisfactorily  judge.  He  could  not  think  her 
wicked ;  yet  her  actions  seemed  unaccountable  on  the  plea 
that  she  was  otherwise.  It  was  another  characteristic 
thread  in  the  wild  web  of  madness  that  had  spun  itself 
about  all  the  prominent  characters  of  our  story.  And  when 
Middleton  thought  of  these  things,  he  felt  as  if  it  might  be 
his  duty  (supposing  he  had  the  power)  to  shovel  the  earth 
again  into  the  pit  that  he  had  been  the  means  of  opening ; 
but  also  felt  that,  whether  duty  or  not,  he  would  never  per 
form  it. 

For,  you  see,  on  the  American's  arrival  he  had  found  the 
estate  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  descendants ;  but  some 
disclosures  consequent  on  his  arrival  had  thrown  it  into  the 
hands  of  another ;  or,  at  all  events,  had  seemed  to  make  it 
apparent  that  justice  required  that  it  should  be  so  disposed 
of.  No  sooner  was  the  discovery  made  than  the  possessor 
put  on  a  coronet ;  the  new  heir  had  commenced  legal  pro 
ceedings  ;  the  sons  of  the  respective  branches  had  come  to 
blows  and  blood ;  and  the  devil  knows  what  other  devilish 
consequences  had  ensued.  Besides  this,  there  was  much 
falling  in  love  at  cross-purposes,  and  a  general  animosity  of 
everybody  against  everybody  else,  in  proportion  to  the  close 
ness  of  the  natural  ties  and  their  obligation  to  love  one  an 
other. 

The  moral,  if  any  moral  were  to  be  gathered  from  these 
petty  and  wretched  circumstances,  was,  "  Let  the  past  alone : 
do  not  seek  to  renew  it ;  press  on  to  higher  and  better 


THE  AXCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  489 

things,  —  at  all  events,  to  other  things  ;  and  be  assured  that 
the  right  way  can  never  be  that  which  leads  you  back  to 
the  identical  shapes  that  you  long  ago  left  behind.  On 
ward,  onward,  onward  !  " 

"  What  have  you  to  do  here  ?  "  said  Alice.  "  Your  lot  is 
in  another  land.  You  have  seen  the  birthplace  of  your  fore 
fathers,  and  have  gratified  your  natural  yearning  for  it ;  now 
return,  and  cast  in  your  lot  with  your  own  people,  let  it  be 
what  it  will.  I  fully  believe  that  it  is  such  a  lot  as  the 
world  has  never  yet  seen,  and  that  the  faults,  the  weak 
nesses,  the  errors,  of  your  countrymen  will  vanish  away  like 
morning  mists  before  the  rising  sun.  You  can  do  nothing 
better  than  to  go  back." 

"  This  is  strange  advice,  Alice,"  said  Mid  die  ton,  gazing 
at  her  and  smiling.  "  Go  back,  with  such  a  fair  prospect 
before  me  ;  that  were  strange  indeed  !  It  is  enough  to  keep 
me  here,  that  here  only  I  shall  see  you,  —  enough  to  make 
me  rejoice  to  have  come,  that  I  have  found  you  here." 

"  Do  not  speak  in  this  foolish  way,"  cried  Alice,  panting. 
"  I  am  giving  you  the  best  advice,  and  speaking  in  the 
wisest  way  I  am  capable  of,  —  speaking  on  good  grounds 
too,  —  and  you  turn  me  aside  with  a  silly  compliment.  I 
tell  you  that  this  is  no  comedy  in  which  we  are  performers, 
but  a  deep,  sad  tragedy  ;  and  that  it  depends  most  upon 
you  whether  or  no  it  shall  be  pressed  to  a  catastrophe. 
Think  well  of  it." 

u  I  have  thought,  Alice,"  responded  the  young  man,  "  and 
I  must  let  things  take  their  course  ;  if,  indeed,  it  depends 
at  all  upon  me,  which  I  see  no  present  reason  to  suppose. 
Yet  I  wish  you  would  explain  to  me  what  you  mean." 

To  take  up  the  story  from  the  point  where  we  left  it : 
by  the  aid  of  the  American's  revelations,  some  light  is 
thrown  upon  points  of  family  history,  which  induce  the 
English  possessor  of  the  estate  to  suppose  that  the  time  has 
come  for  asserting  his  claim  to  a  title  which  has  long  been 
in  abeyance.  He  therefore  sets  about  it,  and  engages  in 


490  APPENDIX. 

great  expenses,  besides  contracting  the  enmity  of  many  per 
sons,  with  whose  interests  he  interferes.  A  further  compli 
cation  is  brought  about  by  the  secret  interference  of  the  old 
Hospitaller,  and  Alice  goes  singing  and  dancing  through 
the  whole,  in  a  way  that  makes  her  seem  like  a  beautiful 
devil,  though  finally  it  will  be  recognized  that  she  is  an 
angel  of  light.  Middleton,  half  bewildered,  can  scarcely 
tell  how  much  of  this  is  due  to  his  own  agency ;  how  much 
is  independent  of  him  arid  would  have  happened  had  he 
stayed  on  his  own  side  of  the  water.  By  and  by  a  further 
and  unexpected  development  presents  the  singular  fact  that 
he  himself  is  the  heir  to  whatever  claims  there  are,  whether 
of  property  or  rank,  —  all  centring  in  him  as  the  represen 
tative  of  the  eldest  brother.  On  this  discovery  there  ensues 
a  tragedy  in  the  death  of  the  present  possessor  of  the  estate, 
who  has  staked  everything  upon  the  issue  ;  and  Middleton, 
standing  amid  the  ruin  and  desolation  of  which  he  has  been 
the  innocent  cause,  resigns  all  the  claims  which  he  might 
now  assert,  and  retires,  arm  in  arm  with  Alice,  who  has  en 
couraged  him  to  take  this  course,  and  to  act  up  to  his  char 
acter.  The  estate  takes  a  passage  into  the  female  line,  and 
the  old  name  becomes  extinct,  nor  does  Middleton  seek  to 
continue  it  by  resuming  it  in  place  of  the  one  long  ago  as 
sumed  by  his  ancestor.  Thus  he  and  his  wife  become  the 
Adam  and  Eve  of  a  new  epoch,  and  the  fitting  missionaries 
of  a  new  social  faith,  of  which  there  must  be  continual  hints 
through  the  book. 

A  knot  of  characters  may  be  introduced  as  gathering 
around  Middleton,  comprising  expatriated  Americans  of  all 
sorts  :  the  wandering  printer  who  came  to  me  so  often  at 
the  Consulate,  who  said  he  was  a  native  of  Philadelphia, 
and  could  not  go  home  in  the  thirty  years  that  he  had  been 
trying  to  do  so,  for  lack  of  the  money  to  pay  his  passage  ; 
the  large  banker  ;  the  consul  of  Leeds  ;  the  woman  assert 
ing  her  claims  to  half  Liverpool ;  the  gifted  literary  lady, 
maddened  by  Shakespeare,  &c.,  &c.  The  Yankee  who  had 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  491 

been  driven  insane  by  the  Queen's  notice,  slight  as  it  was, 
of  the  photographs  of  his  two  children  which  he  had  sent 
her.  I  have  not  yet  struck  the  true  key-note  of  this  Ro 
mance,  and  until  I  do,  and  unless  I  do,  I  shall  write  noth 
ing  but  tediousness  and  nonsense.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be  a 
picture  of  life,  but  a  Romance,  grim,  grotesque,  quaint,  of 
which  the  Hospital  might  be  the  fitting  scene.  It  might 
have  so  much  of  the  hues  of  life  that  the  reader  should 
sometimes  think  it  was  intended  for  a  picture,  yet  the  at 
mosphere  should  be  such  as  to  excuse  all  wildness.  In  the 
Introduction,  I  might  disclaim  all  intention  to  draw  a  real 
picture,  but  say  that  the  continual  meetings  1  had  with 
Americans  bent  on  such  errands  had  suggested  this  wild 
story.  The  descriptions  of  scenery,  &c.,  and  of  the  Hos 
pital,  might  be  correct,  but  there  should  be  a  tinge  of  the 
grotesque  given  to  all  the  characters  and  events.  The  tragic 
and  the  gentler  pathetic  need  not  be  excluded  by  the  tone 
and  treatment.  If  I  could  but  write  one  central  scene  in 
this  vein,  all  the  rest  of  the  Romance  would  readily  arrange 
itself  around  that  nucleus.  The  begging-girl  would  be  an 
other  American  character ;  the  actress  too ;  the  caravan 
people.  It  must  be  humorous  work,  or  nothing. 


ra. 

May  Vlth,  Wednesday.  —  Middleton  found  his  abode  here 
becoming  daily  more  interesting  ;  and  he  sometimes  thought 
that  it  was  the  sympathies  with  the  place  and  people,  buried 
under  the  supergrowth  of  so  many  ages,  but  now  coming 
forth  with  the  life  and  vigor  of  a  fountain,  that,  long  hidden 
beneath  earth  and  ruins,  gushes  out  singing  into  the  sun 
shine,  as  soon  as  these  are  removed.  He  wandered  about 
the  neighborhood  with  insatiable  interest ;  sometimes,  and 
often,  lying  on  a  hill-side  and  gazing  at  the  gray  tower  of 
the  church ;  sometimes  coming  into  the  village  clustered 


492  APPENDIX. 

round  that  same  church,  and  looking  at  the  old  timber  and 
plaster  houses,  the  same,  except  that  the  thatch  had  prob 
ably  been  often  renewed,  that  they  used  to  be  in  his  ances 
tor's  days.  In  those  old  cottages  still  dwelt  the  families, 

the s,  the  Prices,  the  Hopnorts,  the  Copleys,  that  had 

dwelt  there  when  America  was  a  scattered  progeny  of  in 
fant  colonies;  and  in  the  churchyard  were  the  graves  of 
all  the  generations  since  —  including  the  dust  of  those  who 
had  seen  his  ancestor's  face  before  his  departure. 

The  graves,  outside  the  church  walls  indeed,  bore  no 
marks  of  this  antiquity ;  for  it  seems  not  to  have  been  an 
early  practice  in  England  to  put  stones  over  such  graves ; 
and  where  it  has  been  done,  the  climate  causes  the  inscrip 
tions  soon  to  become  obliterated  and  unintelligible.  But, 
within  the  church,  there  were  rich  words  of  the  personages 
and  times  with  whom  Middleton's  musings  held  so  much 
converse. 

But  one  of  his  greatest  employments  and  pastimes  was  to 
ramble  through  the  grounds  of  SmithelPs,  making  himself  as 
well  acquainted  with  its  wood  paths,  its  glens,  its  woods,  its 
venerable  trees,  as  if  he  had  been  bred  up  there  from  in 
fancy.  Some  of  those  old  oaks  his  ancestor  might  have 
been  acquainted  with,  while  they  were  already  sturdy  and 
well-grown  trees  ;  might  have  climbed  them  in  boyhood  ; 
might  have  mused  beneath  them  as  a  lover ;  might  have 
flung  himself  at  full  length  on  the  turf  beneath  them,  in  the 
bitter  anguish  that  must  have  preceded  his  departure  for 
ever  from  the  home  of  his  forefathers.  In  order  to  secure 
an  uninterrupted  enjoyment  of  his  rambles  here,  Middleton 
had  secured  the  good-will  of  the  game-keepers  and  other 
underlings  whom  he  was  likely  to  meet  about  the  grounds, 
by  giving  them  a  shilling  or  a  half-crown  ;  and  he  was  now 
free  to  wander  where  he  would,  with  only  the  advice  rather 
than  the  caution,  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  their  old  master, 
—  for  there  might  be  trouble,  if  he  should  meet  a  stranger 
on  the  grounds,  in  any  of  his  tantrums.  But,  in  fact,  Mr. 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  493 

Eldredge  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of  walking  about  the 
grounds  ;  and  there  were  hours  of  every  day,  during  which 
it  was  altogether  improbable  that  he  would  have  emerged 
from  his  own  apartments  in  the  manor-house.  These  were 
the  hours,  therefore,  when  Middleton  most  frequented  the 
estate  ;  although,  to  say  the  truth,  he  would  gladly  have  so 
timed  his  visits  as  to  meet  and  form  an  acquaintance  with 
the  lonely  lord  of  this  beautiful  property,  his  own  kinsman, 
though  with  so  many  ages  of  dark  oblivion  between.  For 
Middleton  had  not  that  feeling  of  infinite  distance  in  the  re 
lationship,  which  he  would  have  had  if  his  branch  of  the 
family  had  continued  in  England,  and  had  not  intermarried 
with  the  other  branch,  through  such  a  long  waste  of  years ; 
he  rather  felt  as  if  he  were  the  original  emigrant  who,  long 
resident  on  a  foreign  shore,  had  now  returned,  with  a  heart 
brimful  of  tenderness,  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  and 
renew  his  tender  relations  with  those  who  shared  his  own 
blood. 

There  was  not,  however,  much  in  what  he  heard  of  the 
character  of  the  present  possessor  of  the  estate  —  or  indeed 
in  the  strong  family  characteristic  that  had  become  hered 
itary  —  to  encourage  him  to  attempt  any  advances.  It  is 
very  probable  that  the  religion  of  Mr.  Eldredge,  as  a  Cath 
olic,  may  have  excited  a  prejudice  against  him,  as  it  cer 
tainly  had  insulated  the  family,  in  a  great  degree,  from  the 
sympathies  of  the  neighborhood.  Mr.  Elifredge,  moreover, 
had  resided  long  on  the  Continent ;  long  in  Italy  ;  and  had 
come  back  with  habits  that  little  accorded  with  those  of  the 
gentry  of  the  neighborhood  ;  so  that,  in  fact,  he  was  almost 
as  much  of  a  stranger,  and  perhaps  quite  as  little  of  a  real 
Englishman,  as  Middleton  himself.  Be  that  as  it  might, 
Middleton,  when  he  sought  to  learn  something  about  him, 
heard  the  strangest  stories  of  his  habits  of  life,  of  his  tem 
per,  and  of  his  employments,  from  the  people  with  whom 
he  conversed.  The  old  legend,  turning  upon  the  monomania 
of  the  family,  was  revived  in  full  force  in  reference  to  this 


494  APPENDIX. 

poor  gentleman  ;  and  many  a  time  Middleton's  interlocutors 
shook  their  wise  heads,  saying  with  a  knowing  look  and 
under  their  breath  that  the  old  gentleman  was  looking  for 
the  track  of  the  Bloody  Footstep.  They  fabled  —  or  said, 
for  it  might  not  have  been  a  false  story  —  that  every  de 
scendant  of  this  house  had  a  certain  portion  of  his  life,  dur 
ing  which  he  sought  the  track  of  that  footstep  which  was  left 
on  the  threshold  of  the  mansion  ;  that  he  sought  it  far  and 
wide,  over  every  foot  of  the  estate  ;  not  only  on  the  estate, 
but  throughout  the  neighborhood  ;  not  only  in  the  neighbor 
hood  but  all  over  England  ;  not  only  throughout  England 
but  all  about  the  world.  It  was  the  belief  of  the  neighbor 
hood  —  at  least  of  some  old  men  and  women  in  it  —  that  the 
long  period  of  Mr.  Eldredge's  absence  from  England  had 
been  spent  in  the  search  for  some  trace  of  those  departing 
footsteps  that  had  never  returned.  It  is  very  possible  — 
probable,  indeed  —  that  there  may  have  been  some  ground 
for  this  remarkable  legend  ;  not  that  it  is  to  be  credited  that 
the  family  of  Eldredge,  being  reckoned  among  sane  men, 
would  seriously  have  sought,  years  and  generations  after  the 
fact,  for  the  first  track  of  those  bloody  footsteps  which  the 
first  rain  of  drippy  England  must  have  washed  away  ;  to 
say  nothing  of  the  leaves  that  had  fallen  and  the  growth 
and  decay  of  so  many  seasons,  that  covered  all  traces  of 
them  since.  But  nothing  is  more  probable  than  that  the 
continual  recurrdfece  to  the  family  genealogy,  which  had 
been  necessitated  by  the  matter  of  the  dormant  peerage, 
had  caused  the  Eldredges,  from  father  to  son,  to  keep  alive 
an  interest  in  that  ancestor  who  had  disappeared,  and  who 
had  been  supposed  to  carry  some  of  the  most  important 
family  papers  with  him.  But  yet  it  gave  Middleton  a 
strange  thrill  of  pleasure,  that  had  something  fearful  in  it, 
to  think  that  all  through  these  ages  he  had  been  waited  for, 
sought  for,  anxiously  expected,  as  it  were ;  it  seemed  as  if 
the  very  ghosts  of  his  kindred,  a  long  shadowy  line,  held 
forth  their  dim  arms  to  welcome  him ;  a  line  stretching  back 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  495 

• 

to  the  ghosts  of  those  who  -had  flourished  in  the  old,  old 
times  ;  the  doubletted  and  beruffled  knightly  shades  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  time;  a  long  line,  stretching  from  the 
mediaeval  ages,  and  their  duskiness,  downward,  downward, 
with  only  one  vacant  space,  that  of  him  who  had  left  the 
Bloody  Footstep.  There  was  an  inexpressible  pleasure 
(airy  and  evanescent,  gone  in  a  moment  if  he  dwelt  upon  it 
too  thoughtfully,  but  very  sweet)  to  Middleton's  imagina 
tion,  in  this  idea.  When  he  reflected,  however,  that  his  rev 
elations,  if  they  had  any  effect  at  all,  might  serve  only  to 
quench  the  hopes  of  these  long  expectants,  it  of  course  made 
him  hesitate  to  declare  himself. 

One  afternoon,  when  he  was  in  the  midst  of  musings 
such  as  this,  he  saw  at  a  distance  through  the  park,  in 
the  direction  of  the  manor-house,  a  person  who  seemed  to 
be  walking  slowly  and  seeking  for  something  upon  the 
ground.  He  was  a  long  way  off  when  Middleton  first  per 
ceived  him  ;  and  there  were  two  clumps  of  trees  and  under 
brush,  with  interspersed  tracts  of  sunny  lawn,  between  them. 
The  person,  whoever  he  was,  kept  on,  and  plunged  into  the 
first  clump  of  shrubbery,  still  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
as  if  intensely  searching  for  something.  When  he  emerged 
from  the  concealment  of  the  first  clump  of  shrubbery,  Mid 
dleton  saw  that  he  was  a  tall,  thin  person,  in  a  dark  dress  ; 
and  this  was  the  chief  observation  that  the  distance  enabled 
him  to  make,  as  the  figure  kept  slowly  onward,  in  a  some 
what  wavering  line,  and  plunged  into  the  second  clump  of 
shrubbery.  From  that,  too,  he  emerged  ;  and  soon  ap 
peared  to  be  a  thin  elderly  figure,  of  a  dark  man  with  gray 
hair,  bent,  as  it  seemed  to  Middleton,  with  infirmity,  for  his 
figure  still  stooped  even  in  the  intervals  when  he  did  not  ap 
pear  to  be  tracking  the  ground.  But  Middleton  could  not 
but  be  surprised  at  the  singular  appearance  the  figure  had 
of  setting  its  foot,  at  every  step,  just  where  a  previous  foot 
step  had  been  made,  as  if  he  wanted  to  measure  his  whole 
pathway  in  the  track  of  somebody  who  had  recently  gone 


496  APPENDIX. 

• 

over  the  ground  in  advance  of  him.  Middleton  was  sitting 
at  the  foot  of  an  oak ;  and  he  began  to  feel  some  awkward 
ness  in  the  consideration  of  what  he  would  do  if  Mr.  El- 
dredge  —  for  he  could  not  doubt  that  it  was  he  —  were  to 
be  led  just  to  this  spot,  in  pursuit  of  his  singular  occupa 
tion.  And  even  so  it  proved. 

Middleton  could  not  feel  it  manly  to  fly  and  hide  himself? 
like  a  guilty  thing ;  and  indeed  the  hospitality  of  the  Eng 
lish  country  gentleman  in  many  cases  gives  the  neighbor 
hood  and  the  stranger  a  certain  degree  of  freedom  in  the 
use  of  the  broad  expanse  of  ground  in  which  they  and  their 
forefathers  have  loved  to  sequester  their  residences.  The 
figure  kept  on,  showing  more  and  more  distinctly  the  tall, 
meagre,  not  unvenerable  features  of  a  gentleman  in  the  de 
cline  of  life,  apparently  in  ill-health  ;  with  a  dark  face,  that 
might  once  have  been  full  of  energy,  but  now  seemed  enfee 
bled  by  time,  passion,  and  perhaps  sorrow.  But  it  was 
strange  to  see  the  earnestness  with  which  he  looked  on  the 
ground,  and  the  accuracy  with  which  he  at  last  set  his  foot, 
apparently  adjusting  it  exactly  to  some  footprint  before 
him  ;  and  Middleton  doubted  not  that,  having  studied  and 
re-studied  the  family  records  and  the  judicial  examinations 
which  described  exactly  the  track  that  was  seen  the  day 
after  the  memorable  disappearance  of  his  ancestor,  Mr. 
Eldredge  was  now,  in  some  freak,  or  for  some  purpose  "best 
known  to  himself,  practically  following  it  out.  And  follow 
it  out  he  did,  until  at  last  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  muttering 
to  himself  :  "At  this  point  the  footsteps  wholly  disappear." 

Lifting  his  eyes,  as  we  have  said,  while  thus  regretfully 
and  despairingly  muttering  these  words,  he  saw  Middleton 
against  the  oak,  within  three  paces  of  him. 

May  13th,  Thursday.  —  Mr.  Eldredge  (for  it  was  he)  first 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  full  on  Middleton's  face,  with  an  expres 
sion  as  if  he  saw  him  not ;  but  gradually  —  slowly,  at  first 
—  he  seemed  to  become  aware  of  his  presence  ;  then,  with 
a  sudden  flush,  he  took  in  the  idea  that  he  was  encountered 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  497 

by  a  stranger  in  his  secret  mood.  A  flush  of  anger  or 
shame,  perhaps  both,  reddened  over  his  face ;  his  eyes 
gleamed  ;  and  he  spoke  hastily  and  roughly. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  How  come  you  here  ?  I 
allow  no  intruders  in  my  park.  Begone,  fellow  !  " 

"  Really,  sir,  I  did  not  mean  to  intrude  upon  you,"  said 
Middle  ton  blandly.  "  I  am  aware  that  I  owe  you  an  apol 
ogy  ;  but  the  beauties  of  your  park  must  plead  my  excuse  ; 
and  the  constant  kindness  of  [the]  English  gentleman,  which 
admits  a  stranger  to  the  privilege  of  enjoying  so  much  of 
the  beauty  in  which  he  himself  dwells  as  the  stranger's  taste 
permits  him  to  enjoy." 

"  An  artist,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Eldredge,  somewhat  less 
uncourteously.  i;  I  am  told  that  they  love  to  come  here  and 
sketch  those  old  oaks  and  their  vistas,  and  the  old  mansion 
yonder.  But  you  are  an  intrusive  set,  you  artists,  and  think 
that  a  pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper  may  be  your  passport 
anywhere.  You  are  mistaken,  sir.  My  park  is  not  open  to 
strangers." 

*•  I  am  sorry,  then,  to  have  intruded  upon  you,"  said 
Middleton,  still  in  good  humor ;  for  in  truth  he  felt  a  sort 
of  kindness,  a  sentiment,  ridiculous  as  it  may  appear,  of 
kindred  towards  the  old  gentleman,  and  besides  was  not 
unwilling  in  any  way  to  prolong  a  conversation  in  whicli 
he  found  a  singular  interest.  "  I  am  sorry,  especially  as  I 
have  not  even  the  excuse  you  kindly  suggest  for  me.  I  am 
not  an  artist,  only  an  American,  who  have  strayed  hither  to 
enjoy  this  gentle,  cultivated,  tamed  nature  which  I  find  in 
English  parks,  so  contrasting  with  the  wild,  rugged  nature 
of  my  native  land.  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  will  retire." 

"  An  American,"  repeated  Mr.  Eldredge,  looking  curi 
ously  at  him.  "  Ah,  you  are  wild  men  in  that  country,  I 
suppose,  and  cannot  conceive  that  an  English  gentleman 
encloses  his  grounds  —  or  that  his  ancestors  have  done  so 
before  him  —  for  his  own  pleasure  and  convenience,  and 
does  not  calculate  on  having  it  infringed  upon  by  everybody, 

VOL.  xi.  32 


498  APPENDIX. 

like  your  own  forests,  as  you  say.  It  is  a  curious  coun 
try,  that  of  yours  ;  and  in  Italy  I  have  seen  curious  people 
from  it." 

"  True,  sir,"  said  Middleton,  smiling.  "  We  send  queer 
specimens  abroad ;  but  Englishmen  should  consider  that  we 
spring  from  them,  and  that  we  present  after  all  only  a  pic 
ture  of  their  own  characteristics,  a  little  varied  by  climate 
and  in  situation." 

Mr.  Eldredge  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  kind  of  in 
terest,  and  it  seemed  to  Middleton  that  he  was  not  unwilling 
to  continue  the  conversation,  if  a  fair  way  to  do  so  could 
only  be  offered  to  him.  A  secluded  man  often  grasps  at 
any  opportunity  of  communicating  with  his  kind,  when  it  is 
casually  offered  to  him,  and  for  the  nonce  is  surprisingly 
familiar,  running  out  towards  his  chance-companion  with  the 
gush  of  a  dammed-up  torrent,  suddenly  unlocked.  As  Mid 
dleton  made  a  motion  to  retire,  he  put  out  his  hand  with  an 
air  of  authority  to  restrain  him. 

"  Stay,"  said  he.  "  Now  that  you  are  here,  the  mischief 
is  done,  and  you  cannot  repair  it  by  hastening  away.  You 
have  interrupted  me  in  my  mood  of  thought,  and  must  pay 
the  penalty  by  suggesting  other  thoughts.  I  am  a  lonely 
man  here,  having  spent  most  of  my  life  abroad,  and  am 
separated  from  my  neighbors  by  various  circumstances. 
You  seem  to  be  an  intelligent  man.  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  a  few  questions  about  your  country." 

He  looked  at  Middleton  as  he  spoke,  and  seemed  to  be 
considering  in  what  rank  of  life  he  should  place  him ;  his 
dress  being  such  as  suited  a  humble  rank.  He  seemed  not 
to  have  come  to  any  very  certain  decision  on  this  point. 

"  I  remember,"  said  he,  "  you  have  no  distinctions  of  rank 
in  your  country  ;  a  convenient  thing  enough,  in  some  re 
spects.  When  there  are  no  gentlemen,  all  are  gentlemen. 
So  let  it  be.  You  speak  of  being  Englishmen  ;  and  it  has 
often  occurred  to  me  that  Englishmen  have  left  this  country 
and  been  much  missed  and  sought  after,  who  might  perhaps 
be  sought  there  successfully." 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      499 

"  It  is  certainly  so,  Mr.  Eldredge,"  said  Middleton,  lift 
ing  his  eyes  to  his  face  as  he  spoke,  and  then  turning  them 
aside.  k'  Many  footsteps,  the  track  of  which  is  lost  in  Eng 
land,  might  be  found  reappearing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic  ;  ay,  though  it  be  hundreds  of  years  since  the  track 
was  lost  here." 

Middleton,  though  he  had  refrained  from  looking  full  at 
Mr.  Eldredge  as  he  spoke,  was  conscious  that  he  gave  a 
great  start ;  and  he  remained  silent  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  when  he  spoke  there  was  the  tremor  in  his  voice  of  a 
nerve  that  had  been  struck  and  still  vibrated. 

"  That  is  a  singular  idea  of  yours,"  he  at  length  said  ; 
"  not  singular  in  itself,  but  strangely  coincident  with  some 
thing  that  happened  to  be  occupying  my  mind.  Have  you 
ever  heard  any  such  instances  as  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Middleton.  "  I  have  had  pointed  out  to 
me  the  rightful  heir  to  a  Scottish  earldom,  in  the  person  of 
an  American  farmer,  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  There  are  many 
Americans  who  believe  themselves  to  hold  similar  claims. 
And  I  have  known  one  family,  at  least,  who  had  in  their 
possession,  and  had  had  for  two  centuries,  a  secret  that 
might  have  been  worth  wealth  and  honors  if  known  in 
England.  Indeed,  being  kindred  as  we  are,  it  cannot  but 
be  the  case." 

Mr.  Eldredge  appeared  to  be  much  struck  by  these  last 
words,  and  gazed  wistfully,  almost  wildly,  at  Middleton,  as 
if  debating  with  himself  whether  to  say  more.  He  made  a 
step  or  two  aside  ;  then  returned  abruptly,  and  spoke. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  family  in  which  this 
secret  was  kept  ?  "  said  he ;  "  and  the  nature  of  the  se 
cret  ?  " 

"The  nature  of  the  secret,"  said  Middleton,  smiling, 
"  was  not  likely  to  be  extended  to  any  one  out  of  the  fam 
ily.  The  name  borne  by  the  family  was  Middleton.  There 
is  no  member  of  it,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  at  this  moment 
remaining  in  America," 


500  APPENDIX. 

"  And  has  the  secret  died  with  them  ?  "  asked  Mr.  EL 
dredge. 

"  They  communicated  it  to  none,"  said  Middleton. 

"  It  is  a  pity  !  It  was  a  villainous  wrong,"  said  Mr.  El- 
dredge.  "  And  so,  it  may  be,  some  ancient  line,  in  the  old 
country,  is  defrauded  of  its  rights  for  want  of  what  might 
have  been  obtained  from  this  Yankee,  whose  democracy  has 
demoralized  them  to  the  perception  of  what  is  due  to  the 
antiquity  of  descent,  and  of  the  bounden  duty  that  there  is, 
in  all  ranks,  to  keep  up  the  honor  of  a  family  that  has  had 
potence  enough  to  preserve  itself  in  distinction  for  a  thou 
sand  years." 

"  Yes,"  said  Middleton,  quietly,  "  we  have  sympathy 
with  what  is  strong  and  vivacious  to-day ;  none  with  what 
was  so  yesterday." 

The  remark  seemed  not  to  please  Mr.  Eldredge ;  he 
frowned,  and  muttered  something  to  himself ;  but  recover 
ing  himself,  addressed  Middleton  with  more  courtesy  than 
at  the  commencement  of  their  interview ;  and,  with  this 
graciousness,  his  face  and  manner  grew  very  agreeable, 
almost  fascinating :  he  [was]  still  haughty,  however. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  met  you. 
I  am  a  solitary  man,  as  I  have  said,  and  a  little  communica 
tion  with  a  stranger  is  a  refreshment,  which  I  enjoy  seldom 
enough  to  be  sensible  of  it.  Pray,  are  you  staying  here 
abouts  ?  " 

Middleton  signified  to  him  that  he  might  probably  spend 
some  little  time  in  the  village. 

"Then,  during  your  stay,"  said  Mr.  Eldredge,  "make 
free  use  of  the  walks  in  these  grounds;  and  though  it  is 
not  probable  that  you  will  meet  me  in  them  again,  you  need 
apprehend  no  second  questioning  of  your  right  to  be  here. 
My  house  has  many  points  of  curiosity  that  may  be  of  in 
terest  to  a  stranger  from  a  new  country.  Perhaps  you  have 
heard  of  some  of  them." 

"  I  have  heard  some  wild  legend  about  a  Bloody  Foot- 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  501 

step,"  answered  Middleton;  "  indeed,  I  think  I  remember 
hearing  something  about  it  in  my  own  country  ;  and  having 
a  fanciful  sort  of  interest  in  such  things.  I  took  advantage 
of  the  hospitable  custom  which  opens  the  doors  of  curious 
old  houses  to  strangers,  to  go  to  see  it.  It  seemed  to  me,  I 
confess,  only  a  natural  stain  in  the  old  stone  that  forms  the 
doorstep." 

"  There,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Eldredge,  4<  let  me  say  that  you 
came  to  a  very  foolish  conclusion  ;  and  so,  good-by,  sir." 

And  without  further  ceremony,  he  cast  an  angry  glance 
at  Middleton,  who  perceived  that  the  old  gentleman  reck 
oned  the  Bloody  Footstep  among  his  ancestral  honors,  and 
would  probably  have  parted  with  his  claim  to  the  peerage 
almost  as  soon  as  have  given  up  the  legend. 

Present  aspect  of  the  story :  Middleton  on  his  arrival  be 
comes  acquainted  with  the  old  Hospitaller,  and  is  familiar 
ized  at  the  Hospital.  He  pays  a  visit  in  his  company  to  the 
manor-house,  but  merely  glimpses  at  its  remarkable  things, 
at  this  visit,  among  others  at  the  old  cabinet,  which  does 
not,  at  first  view,  strike  him  very  strongly.  But,  on  musing 
about  his  visit  afterwards,  he  finds  the  recollection  of  the 
cabinet  strangely  identifying  itself  with  his  previous  im 
aginary  picture  of  the  palatial  mansion  ;  so  that  at  last  he 
begins  to  conceive  the  mistake  he  has  made.  At  tin's  first 
[visit],  he  does  not  have  a  personal  interview  with  the  pos 
sessor  of  the  estate ;  but,  as  the  Hospitaller  and  himself  go 
from  room  to  room,  he  finds  that  the  owner  is  preceding 
them,  shyly  flitting  like  a  ghost,  so  as  to  avoid  them.  Then 
there  is  a  chapter  about  the  character  of  the  Eldredge  of  the 
day,  a  Catholic,  a  morbid,  shy  man,  representing  all  the 
peculiarities  of  an  old  family,  and  generally  thought  to  be 
insane.  And  then  comes  the  interview  between  him  and 
Middleton,  where  the  latter  excites  such  an  interest  that  he 
dwells  upon  the  old  man's  mind,  and  the  latter  probably 
takes  pains  to  obtain  further  intercourse  with  him,  and  per 
haps  invites  him  to  dinner,  and  [to]  spend  a  night  in  his 


502  APPENDIX. 

house.  If  so,  this  second  meeting  must  lead  to  the  examina 
tion  of  the  cabinet,  and  the  discovery  of  some  family  docu 
ments  in  it.  Perhaps  the  cabinet  may  be  in  Middleton's 
sleeping-chamber,  and  he  examines  it  by  himself,  before  go 
ing  to  bed ;  and  finds  out  a  secret  which  will  perplex  him 
how  to  deal  with  it. 

May  14^/z-,  Friday.  —  We  have  spoken  several  times  al 
ready  of  a  young  girl,  who  was  seen  at  this  period  about 
the  little  antiquated  village  of  Smithells ;  a  girl  in  manners 
and  in  aspect  unliko  those  of  the  cottages  amid  which  she 
dwelt.  Middleton  had  now  so  often  met  her,  and  in  solitary 
places,  that  an  acquaintance  had  inevitably  established  itself 
between  them.  He  had  ascertained  that  she  had  lodgings 
at  a  farm-house  near  by,  and  that  she  was  connected  in  some 
way  with  the  old  Hospitaller,  whose  acquaintance  had 
proved  of  such  interest  to  him  ;  but  more  than  this  he  could 
not  learn  either  from  her  or  others.  But  he  was  greatly 
attracted  and  interested  by  the  free  spirit  and  fearlessness 
of  this  young  woman  ;  nor  could  he  conceive  where,  in  staid 
and  formal  England,  she  had  grown  up  to  be  such  as  she 
was,  so  without  manner,  so  without  art,  yet  so  capable  of 
doing  and  thinking  for  herself.  She  had  no  reserve,  ap 
parently,  yet  never  seemed  to  sin  against  decorum  ;  it  never 
appeared  to  restrain  her  that  anything  she  might  wish  to  do 
was  contrary  to  custom ;  she  had  nothing  of  what  could  be 
called  shyness  in  her  intercourse  with  him  ;  and  yet  he  was 
conscious  of  an  unapproachableness  in  Alice.  Often,  in  the 
old  man's  presence,  she  mingled  in  the  conversation  that 
went  on  between  him  and  Middleton,  and  with  an  acuteness 
that  betokened  a  sphere  of  thought  much  beyond  what  could 
be  customary  with  young  English  maidens  ;  and  Middleton 
was  often  reminded  of  the  theories  of  those  in  our  own  coun 
try,  who  believe  that  the  amelioration  of  society  depends 
greatly  on  the  part  that  women  shall  hereafter  take,  accord' 
ing  to  their  individual  capacity,  in  all  the  various  pursuits 
of  life.  These  deeper  thoughts,  these  higher  qualities,  sur- 


• 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      503 

prised  him  as  they  showed  themselves,  whenever  occasion 
called  them  forth,  under  the  light,  gay,  and  frivolous  ex 
terior  which  she  had  at  first  seemed  to  present.  Middleton 
often  amused  himself  with  surmises  in  what  rank  of  life 
Alice  could  have  been  bred,  being  so  free  of  all  conventional 
rule,  yet  so  nice  and  delicate  in  her  perception  of  the  true 
proprieties  that  she  never  shocked  him. 

One  morning,  when  they  had  met  in  one  of  Middleton's 
rambles  about  the  neighborhood,  they  began  to  talk  of 
America;  and  Middleton  described  to  Alice  the  stir  that 
was  being  made  in  behalf  of  women's  rights ;  and  he  said 
that  whatever  cause  was  generous  and  disinterested  always, 
in  that  country,  derived  much  of  its  power  from  the  sym 
pathy  of  women,  and  that  the  advocates  of  every  such  cause 
were  in  favor  of  yielding  the  whole  field  of  human  effort  to 
be  shared  with  women. 

44 1  have  been  surprised,"  said  he,  "  in  the  little  I  have 
seen  and  heard  of  English  women,  to  discover  what  a  differ 
ence  there  is  between  them  and  my  own  countrywomen." 

u  I  have  heard."  said  Alice,  with  a  smile,  "  that  your 
countrywomen  are  a  far  more  delicate  and  fragile  race  than 
Englishwomen  ;  pale,  feeble  hot-house  plants,  unfit  for  the 
wear  and  tear  of  life,  without  energy  of  character,  or  any 
slightest  degree  of  physical  strength  to  base  it  upon.  If, 
now.  you  had  these  large-framed  Englishwomen,  you  might, 
I  should  imagine,  with  better  hopes,  set  about  changing  the 
system  of  society,  so  as  to  allow  them  to  struggle  in  the 
strife  of  politics,  or  any  other  strife,  hand  to  hand,  or  side 
by  side  with  men." 

"  If  any  countryman  of  mine  has  said  this  of  our  women," 
exclaimed  Middleton,  indignantly,  "  he  is  a  slanderous  vil 
lain,  unworthy  to  have  been  borne  by  an  American  mother ; 
if  an  Englishman  has  said  it  —  as  I  know  many  of  them 
have  and  do  —  let  it  pass  as  one  of  the  many  prejudices  only 
half  believed,  with  which  they  strive  to  console  themselves 
for  the  inevitable  sense  that  the  American  race  is  destined  to 


504  APPENDIX. 

higher  purposes  than  their  own.  But  pardon  me  ;  I  forgot 
that  I  was  speaking  to  an  Englishwoman,  for  indeed  you  do 
not  remind  me  of  them.  But,  I  assure  you,  the  world  has 
not  seen  such  women  as  make  up,  I  had  almost  said  the 
mass  of  womanhood  in  my  own  country  ;  slight  in  aspect, 
slender  in  frame,  as  you  suggest,  but  yet  capable  of  bring 
ing  forth  stalwart  men ;  they  themselves  being  of  inexhaus 
tible  courage,  patience,  energy ;  soft  and  tender,  deep  of 
heart,  but  high  of  purpose.  Gentle,  refined,  but  bold  in 
every  good  cause." 

"  Oh,  you  have  said  quite  enough,"  replied  Alice,  who 
had  seemed  ready  to  laugh  outright,  during  this  encomium. 
"  I  think  I  see  one  of  these  paragons  now,  in  a  Bloomer,  I 
think  you  call  it,  swaggering  along  with  a  Bowie  knife  at 
her  girdle,  smoking  a  cigar,  no  doubt,  and  tippling  sherry- 
cobblers  and  mint-juleps.  It  must  be  a  pleasant  life." 

"  I  should  think  you,  at  least,  might  form  a  more  just 
idea  of  what  women  become,"  said  Middleton,  considerably 
piqued,  "  in  a  country  where  the  rules  of  conventionalism 
are  somewhat  relaxed  ;  where  woman,  whatever  you  may 
think,  is  far  more  profoundly  educated  than  in  England, 
where  a  few  ill-taught  accomplishments,  a  little  geography, 
a  catechism  of  science,  make  up  the  sum,  under  the  super 
intendence  of  a  governess  ;  the  mind  being  kept  entirely 
inert  as  to  any  capacity  for  thought.  They  are  cowards, 
except  within  certain  rules  and  forms ;  they  spend  a  life  of 
old  proprieties,  and  die,  and  if  their  souls  do  not  die  with 
them,  it  is  Heaven's  mercy." 

Alice  did  not  appear  in  the  least  moved  to  anger,  though 
considerably  to  mirth,  by  this  description  of  the  character  of 
English  females.  She  laughed  as  she  replied,  "  I  see  there 
is  little  danger  of  your  leaving  your  heart  in  England." 
She  added  more  seriously,  "  And  permit  me  to  say,  I  trust, 
Mr.  Middleton,  that  you  remain  as  much  American  in  other 
respects  as  in  your  preference  of  your  own  race  of  wom<m. 
The  American  who  comes  hither  and  persuades  himself  that 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  505 

he  is  one  with  Englishmen,  it  seems  to  me,  makes  a  great 
mistake  ;  at  least,  if  he  is  correct  in  such  an  idea  he  is  not 
\vorthy  of  his  own  country,  and  the  high  development  that 
awaits  it.  There  is  much  that  is  seductive  in  our  life,  but 
I  think  it  is  not  upon  the  higher  impulses  of  our  nature  that 
such  seductions  act  I  should  think  ill  of  the  American 
who,  for  any  causes  of  ambition,  —  any  hope  of  wealth  or 
rank,  —  or  even  for  the  sake  of  any  of  those  old,  delight 
ful  ideas  of  the  past,  the  associations  of  ancestry,  the  loveli 
ness  of  an  age-long  home,  —  the  old  poetry  and  romance 
that  haunt  these  ancient  villages  and  estates  of  England, 
—  would  give  up  the  chance  of  acting  upon  the  unmoulded 
future  of  America." 

"  And  you,  an  Englishwoman,  speak  thus !  "  exclaimed 
Middleton.  "  You  perhaps  speak  truly  ;  and  it  may  be  that 
your  words  go  to  a  point  where  they  are  especially  appli 
cable  at  this  moment.  But  where  have  you  learned  these 
ideas  ?  And  how  is  it  that  you  know  how  to  awake  these 
sympathies,  that  have  slept  perhaps  too  long  ?  " 

"  Think  only  if  what  I  have  said  be  truth,"  replied  Alice. 
"  It  is  no  matter  who  or  what  I  am  that  speak  it." 

"  Do  you  speak,"  asked  Middleton,  from  a  sudden  im 
pulse,  "  with  any  secret  knowledge  affecting  a  matter  now 
in  my  mind  ?  " 

Alice  shook  her  head,  as  she -turned  away;  but  Middle- 
ton  could  not  determine  whether  the  gesture  was  meant  as 
a  negative  to  his  question,  or  merely  as  declining  to  answer 
it.  She  left  him ;  and  he  found  himself  strangely  disturbed 
with  thoughts  of  his  own  country,  of  the  life  that  he  ought 
to  be  leading  there,  the  struggles  in  which  he  ought  to  be 
taking  part ;  and,  with  these  motives  in  his  impressible 
mind,  the  motives  that  had  hitherto  kept  him  in  England 
seemed  unworthy  to  influence  him. 

May  lo£/i,  Saturday.  —  It  was  not  long  after  Middleton's 
meeting  with  Mr.  Eldredge  in  the  park  of  Smithells,  that  he 
received  —  what  it  is  precisely  the  most  common  thing  to 


506  APPENDIX. 

receive  —  an  invitation  to  dine  at  the  manor  -  house  and 
spend  the  night.  The  note  was  written  with  much  appear 
ance  of  cordiality,  as  well  as  in  a  respectful  style  ;  and  Mid- 
dleton  could  not  but  perceive  that  Mr.  Eldredge  must  have 
been  making  some  inquiries  as  to  his  social  status,  in  order 
to  feel  him  justified  in  putting  him  on  this  footing  of  equal 
ity.  He  had  no  hesitation  in  accepting  the  invitation,  and 
on  the  appointed  day  was  received  in  the  old  house  of  his 
forefathers  as  a  guest.  The  owner  met  him,  not  quite  on 
the  frank  and  friendly  footing  expressed  in  his  note,  but 
still  with  a  perfect  and  polished  courtesy,  which  however 
could  not  hide  from  the  sensitive  Middleton  a  certain  cold 
ness,  a  something  that  seemed  to  him  Italian  rather  than 
English ;  a  symbol  of  a  condition  of  things  between  them, 
undecided,  suspicious,  doubtful  very  likely.  Middleton's 
own  manner  corresponded  to  that  of  his  host,  and  they 
made  few  advances  towards  more  intimate  acquaintance. 
Middleton  was  however  recompensed  for  his  host's  unap- 
proachableness  by  the  society  of  his  daughter,  a  young  lady 
born  indeed  in  Italy,  but  who  had  been  educated  in  a  Cath 
olic  family  in  England  ;  so  that  here  was  another  relation 
—  the  first  female  one  —  to  whom  he  had  been  introduced. 
She  was  a  quiet,  shy,  undemonstrative  young  woman,  with 
a  fine  bloom  and  other  charms  which  she  kept  as  much  in 
the  background  as  possible,  with  maiden  reserve.  (There 
is  a  Catholic  priest  at  table.) 

Mr.  Eldredge  talked  chiefly,  during  dinner,  of  art,  with 
which  his  long  residence  in  Italy  had  made  him  thoroughly 
acquainted,  and  for  which  he  seemed  to  have  a  genuine  taste 
and  enjoyment.  It  was  a  subject  on  which  Middleton  knew 
little  ;  but  he  felt  the  interest  in  it  which  appears  to  be  not 
uncharacteristic  of  Americans,  among  the  earliest  of  their 
developments  of  cultivation  ;  nor  had  he  failed  to  use  such 
few  opportunities  as  the  English  public  or  private  galleries 
offered  him  to  acquire  the  rudiments  of  a  taste.  He  was 
surprised  at  the  depth  of  some  of  Mr.  Eldredge's  remarks 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  507 

on  the  topics  thus  brought  up,  and  at  the  sensibility  which 
appeared  to  be  disclosed  by  his  delicate  appreciation  of 
some  of  the  excellences  of  those  great  masters  who  wrote 
their  epics,  their  tender  sonnets,  or  their  simple  ballads,  upon 
canvas  ;  and  Middleton  conceived  a  respect  for  him  which 
he  had  not  hitherto  felt,  and  which  possibly  Mr.  Eldredge 
did  not  quite  deserve.  Taste  seems  to  be  a  department  of 
moral  sense ;  and  yet  it  is  so  little  identical  with  it,  and  so 
little  implies  conscience,  that  some  of  the  worst  men  in  the 
world  have  been  the  most  refined. 

After  Miss  Eldredge  had  retired,  the  host  appeared  to 
desire  to  make  the  dinner  a  little  more  social  than  it  had 
hitherto  been ;  he  called  for  a  peculiar  species  of  wine  from 
Southern  Italy,  which  he  said  was  the  most  delicious  pro 
duction  of  the  grape,  and  had  very  seldom,  if  ever  before 
been  imported  pure  into  England.  A  delicious  perfume 
came  from  the  cradled  bottle,  and  bore  an  ethereal,  evanes 
cent  testimony  to  the  truth  of  what  he  said  :  and  the  taste, 
though  too  delicate  for  wine  quaffed  in  England,  was  never 
theless  delicious,  when  minutely  dwelt  upon. 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  drink  your  health,  Mr.  Middle- 
ton,"  said  the  host.  '*  We  might  well  meet  as  friends  in 
England,  for  I  am  hardly  more  an  Englishman  than  your 
self  ;  bred  up,  as  I  have  been,  in  Italy,  and  coming  back 
hither  at  my  age,  unaccustomed  to  the  manners  of  the  coun 
try,  with  few  friends,  and  insulated  from  society  by  a  faith 
which  makes  most  people  regard  me  as  an  enemy.  I  sel 
dom  welcome  people  here,  Mr.  Middleton  ;  but  you  are  wel 
come." 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Eldredge,  and  may  fairly  say  that  the 
circumstances  to  which  you  allude  make  me  accept  your 
hospitality  with  a  warmer  feeling  than  I  otherwise  might. 
Strangers,  meeting  in  a  strange  land,  have  a  sort  of  tie  in 
their  foreignness  to  those  around  them,  though  there  be  no 
positive  relation  between  themselves." 

"  We  are  friends,  then  ?  "    said  Mr.  Eldredge,  looking 


508  APPENDIX. 

keenly  at  Middleton,  as  if  to  discover  exactly  how  much  was 
meant  by  the  compact.  He  continued,  u  You  know,  I  sup 
pose,  Mr.  Middleton,  the  situation  in  which  I  find  myself  on 
returning  to  my  hereditary  estate,  which  has  devolved  to 
me  somewhat  unexpectedly  by  the  death  of  a  younger  man 
than  myself.  There  is  an  old  flaw  here,  as  perhaps  you 
have  been  told,  which  keeps  me  out  of  a  property  long  kept 
in  the  guardianship  of  the  crown,  and  of  a  barony,  one  of 
the  oldest  in  England.  There  is  an  idea  —  a  tradition  —  a 
legend,  founded,  however,  on  evidence  of  some  weight,  that 
there  is  still  in  existence  the  possibility  of  finding  the  proof 
which  we  need,  to  confirm  our  cause." 

"  1  am  most  happy  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Eldredge,"  said  Mid 
dleton. 

"But,"  continued  his  host,  "I  am  bound  to  remember 
and  to  consider  that  for  several  generations  there  seems  to 
have  been  the  same  idea,  and  the  same  expectation  ;  whereas 
nothing  has  ever  come  of  it.  Now,  among  other  supposi 
tions  —  perhaps  wild  ones  — it  has  occurred  to  me  that  this 
testimony,  the  desirable  proof,  may  exist  on  your  side  of 
the  Atlantic  ;  for  it  has  long  enough  been  sought  here  in 
vain." 

"  As  I  said  in  our  meeting  in  your  park,  Mr.  Eldredge," 
replied  Middleton,  "  such  a  suggestion  may  very  possibly  be 
true ;  yet  let  me  point  out  that  the  long  lapse  of  years,  and 
the  continual  melting  and  dissolving  of  family  institutions 
— «-  the  consequent  scattering  of  family  documents,  and  the 
annihilation  of  traditions  from  memory,  all  conspire  against 
its  probability." 

"  And  yet,  Mr.  Middleton,"  said  his  host,  "  when  we 
talked  together  at  our  first  singular  interview,  you  made 
use  or  an  expression  —  of  one  remarkable  phrase  —  which 
dwelt  upon  my  memory  and  now  recurs  to  it." 

"  And  what  was  that,  Mr.  Eldredge  ?  "  asked  Middleton. 

"  You  spoke,"  replied  his  host,  "  of  the  Bloody  Footstep 
reappearing  on  the  threshold  of  the  old  palace  of  S . 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.      509 

Now  where,  let  me  ask  you,  did  you  ever  bear  this  strange 
name,  which  you  then  spoke,  and  which  I  have  since 
spoken  ?  " 

'•  From  my  father's  lips,  when  a  child,  in  America,"  re 
sponded  Middleton. 

u  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Eldredge,  in  a  hasty,  dis 
satisfied  tone.  "  I  do  not  see  my  way  through  this." 

May  16£A,  Sunday.  —  Middleton  had  been  put  into  a 
chamber  in  the  oldest  part  of  the  house,  the  furniture  of 
which  was  of  antique  splendor,  well  befitting  to  have  come 
down  for  ages,  well  befitting  the  hospitality  shown  to  noble 
and  even  royal  guests.  It  was  the  same  room  in  which,  at 
his  first  visit  to  the  house,  Midclleton's  attention  had  been 
drawn  to  the  cabinet,  which  he  had  subsequently  remem 
bered  as  the  palatial  residence  in  which  he  had  harbored  so 
many  dreams.  It  still  stood  in  the  chamber,  making  the 
principal  object  in  it,  indeed ;  and  when  Middleton  was  left 
alone,  he  contemplated  it  not  without  a  certain  awe,  which 
at  the  same  time  he  felt  to  be  ridiculous.  He  advanced  to 
wards  it,  and  stood  contemplating  the  mimic  facade,  wonder 
ing  at  the  singular  fact  of  this  piece  of  furniture  having  been 
preserved  in  traditionary  history,  when  so  much  had  been 
forgotten,  —  when  even  the  features  and  architectural  char 
acteristics  of  the  mansion  in  which  it  was  merely  a  piece  of 
furniture  had  been  forgotten.  And,  as  he  gazed  at  it,  he 
half  thought  himself  an  actor  in  a  fairy  portal  [tale  ?]  ;  and 
would  not  have  been  surprised  —  at  least,  he  would  have 
taken  it  with  the  composure  of  a  dream  —  if  the  mimic  por 
tal  had  unclosed,  and  a  form  of  pigmy  majesty  had  appeared 
within,  beckoning  him  to  enter  and  find  the  revelation  of 
what  had  so  long  perplexed  him.  The  key  of  the  cabinet 
was  in  the  lock,  and  knowing  that  it  was  not  now  the  re 
ceptacle  of  anything  in  the  shape  of  family  papers,  he  threw 
it  open ;  and  there  appeared  the  mosaic  floor,  the  represen 
tation  of  a  stately,  pillared  hall,  with  the  doors  on  either  side, 
opening,  as  would  seem,  into  various  apartments.  And  here 


510  APPENDIX. 

should  have  stood  the  visionary  figures  of  his  ancestry, 
waiting  to  welcome  the  descendant  of  their  race,  who  had 
so  long  delayed  his  coming.  After  looking  and  musing  a 
considerable  time,  —  even  till  the  old  clock  from  the  turret 
of  the  house  told  twelve,  he  turned  away  with  a  sigh,  and 
went  to  bed.  The  wind  moaned  through  the  ancestral  trees  ; 
the  old  house  creaked  as  with  ghostly  footsteps ;  the  curtains 
of  his  bed  seemed  to  waver.  He  was  now  at  home  ;  yes,  he 
had  found  his  home,  and  was  sheltered  at  last  under  the  an 
cestral  roof  after  all  those  long,  long  wanderings,  —  after  the 
little  log-built  hut  of  the  early  settlement,  after  the  straight 
roof  of  the  American  house,  after  all  the  many  roofs  of  two 
hundred  years,  here  he  was  at  last  under  the  one  which  he 
had  left,  on  that  fatal  night,  when  the  Bloody  Footstep  was 
so  mysteriously  impressed  on  the  threshold.  As  he  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  towards  sleep,  it  seemed  more  and  more 
to  him  as  if  he  were  the  very  individual  —  the  self -same  one 
throughout  the  whole  —  who  had  done,  seen,  suffered,  all 
these  long  toils  and  vicissitudes,  and  were  now  come  back 
to  rest,  and  found  his  weariness  so  great  that  there  could  be 
no  rest. 

Nevertheless,  he  did  sleep  ;  and  it  may  be  that  his  dreams 
went  on,  and  grew  vivid,  and  perhaps  became  truer  in  pro 
portion  to  their  vividness.  When  he  awoke  he  had  a  per 
ception,  an  intuition,  that  he  had  been  dreaming  about  the 
cabinet,  which,  in  his  sleeping  imagination,  had  again  as 
sumed  the  magnitude  and  proportions  of  a  stately  mansion, 
even  as  he  had  seen  it  afar  from  the  other  side  of  the  At 
lantic.  Some  dim  associations  remained  lingering  behind, 
the  dying  shadows  of  very  vivid  ones  which  had  just  filled 
his  mind  ;  but  as  he  looked  at  the  cabinet,  there  was  some 
idea  that  still  seemed  to  come  so  near  his  consciousness  that, 
every  moment,  he  felt  on  the  point  of  grasping  it.  During 
the  process  of  dressing,  he  still  kept  his  eyes  turned  invol 
untarily  towards  the  cabinet,  and  at  last  he  approached  it, 
and  looked  within  the  mimic  portal,  still  endeavoring  to  rec- 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  511 

ollect  what  it  was  that  he  had  heard  or  dreamed  about  it, 
—  what  half  obliterated  remembrance  from  childhood,  what 
fragmentary  last  night's  dream  it  was,  that  thus  haunted 
him.  It  must  have  been  some  association  of  one  or  the 
other  nature  that  led  him  to  press  his  linger  on  one  partic 
ular  square  of  the  mosaic  pavement ;  and  as  he  did  so,  the 
thin  plate  of  polished  marble  slipt  aside.  It  disclosed,  in 
deed,  no  hollow  receptacle,  but  only  another  leaf  of  marble, 
in  the  midst  of  which  appeared  to  be  a  key-hole  :  to  this 
Middleton  applied  the  little  antique  key  to  which  we  have 
several  times  alluded,  and  found  it  fit  precisely.  The  in 
stant  it  was  turned,  the  whole  mimic  floor  of  the  hall  rose, 
by  the  action  of  a  secret  spring,  and  discovered  a  shallow 
recess  beneath.  Middleton  looked  eagerly  in,  and  saw  that 
it  contained  documents,  with  antique  seals  of  wax  appended ; 
he  took  but  one  glance  at  them,  and  closed  the  receptacle  as 
it  was  before. 

Why  did  he  do  so  ?  He  felt  that  there  would  be  a  mean 
ness  and  wrong  in  inspecting  these  family  papers,  coming 
to  the  knowledge  of  them,  as  he  had,  through  the  opportu 
nities  offered  by  the  hospitality  of  the  owner  of  the  estate  ; 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  did  he  feel  such  confidence  in  his 
host,  as  to  make  him  willing  to  trust  these  papers  in  his 
hands,  with  any  certainty  that  they  would  be  put  to  an 
honorable  use.  The  case  was  one  demanding  consideration, 
and  he  put  a  strong  curb  upon  his  impatient  curiosity,  con 
scious  that,  at  all  events,  his  first  impulsive  feeling  was  that 
he  ought  not  to  examine  these  papers  without  the  presence 
of  his  host  or  some  other  authorized  witness.  Had  he  ex 
ercised  any  casuistry  about  the  point,  however,  he  might 
have  argued  that  these  papers,  according  to  all  appearance, 
dated  from  a  period  to  which  his  own  hereditary  claims  as 
cended,  and  to  circumstances  in  which  his  own  rightful  in 
terest  was  as  strong  as  that  of  Mr.  Eldredge.  But  he  had 
acted  on  his  first  impulse,  closed  the  secret  receptacle,  and 
hastening  his  toilet  descended  from  his  room  ;  and,  it  being 


512  APPENDIX. 

still  too  early  for  breakfast,  resolved  to  ramble  about  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  house.  As  he  passed  the  little 
chapel,  he  heard  within  the  voice  of  the  priest  performing 
mass,  and  felt  how  strange  was  this  sign  of  mediaeval  relig 
ion  and  foreign  manners  in  homely  England. 

As  the  story  looks  now  :  Eldredge,  bred,  and  perhaps 
born,  in  Italy,  and  a  Catholic,  with  views  to  the  church  be 
fore  he  inherited  the  estate,  has  not  the  English  moral  sense 
and  simple  honor ;  can  scarcely  be  called  an  Englishman  at 
all.  Dark  suspicions  of  past  crime,  and  of  the  possibility  of 
future  crime,  may  be  thrown  around  him ;  an  atmosphere 
of  doubt  shall  envelop  him,  though,  as  regards  manners,  he 
may  be  highly  refined.  Middleton  shall  find  in  the  house 
a  priest ;  and  at  his  first  visit  he  shall  have  seen  a  small 
chapel,  adorned  with  the  richness,  as  to  marbles,  pictures, 
and  frescoes,  of  those  that  we  see  in  the  churches  at  Rome ; 
and  here  the  Catholic  forms  of  worship  shall  be  kept  up. 
Eldredge  shall  have  had  an  Italian  mother,  and  shall  have 
the  personal  characteristics  of  an  Italian.  There  shall  be 
something  sinister  about  him,  the  more  apparent  when  Mid- 
dleton's  visit  draws  to  a  conclusion ;  and  the  latter  shall  feel 
convinced  that  they  part  in  enmity,  so  far  as  Eldredge  is 
concerned.  He  shall  not  speak  of  his  discovery  in  the  cab 
inet. 

May  Vltli,  Monday.  —  Unquestionably,  the  appointment 
of  Middleton  as  minister  to  one  of  the  minor  Continental 
courts  must  take  place  in  the  interval  between  Eldredge's 
meeting  him  in  the  park,  and  his  inviting  him  to  his  house. 
After  Middleton's  appointment,  the  two  encounter  each 
other  at  the  Mayor's  dinner  in  St.  Mary's  Hall,  and  El 
dredge,  startled  at  meeting  the  vagrant,  as  he  deemed  him, 
under  such  a  character,  remembers  the  hints  of  some  secret 
knowledge  of  the  family  history,  which  Middleton  had 
thrown  out.  He  endeavors,  both  in  person  and  by  the 
priest,  to  make  out  what  Middleton  really  is,  and  what  he 
knows,  and  what  he  intends  ;  but  Middleton  is  on  his  guard, 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  513 

yet  cannot  help  arousing  Eldredge's  suspicions  that  he  has 
views  upon  the  estate  and  title.  It  is  possible,  too.  that 
Middleton  may  have  come  to  the  knowledge  —  may  have 
had  some  knowledge  —  of  some  shameful  or  criminal  fact 
connected  with  Mr.  Eldredge's  life  on  the  Continent;  the 
old  Hospitaller,  possibly,  may  have  told  him  this,  from  some 
secret  malignity  hereafter  to  be  accounted  for.  Supposing 
Eldredge  to  attempt  his  murder,  by  poison  for  instance^ 
bringing  back  into  modern  life  his  old  hereditary  Italian 
plots  ;  and  into  English  life  a  sort  of  crime  which  does  not 
belong  to  it,  —  which  did  not,  at  least,  although  at  this  very 
period  there  have  been  fresh  and  numerous  instances  of  it 
There  might  be  a  scene  in  which  Middleton  and  Eldredge 
come  to  a  fierce  and  bitter  explanation  ;  for  in  Eldredge's 
character  there  must  be  the  English  surly  boldness  as  well 
as  the  Italian  subtlety  ;  and  here,  Middleton  shall  tell  him 
what  he  knows  of  his  past  character  and  life,  and  also  what 
he  knows  of  his  own  hereditary  claims.  Eldredge  might 
have  committed  a  murder  in  Italy ;  might  have  been  a 
patriot,  and  betrayed  his  friends  to  death  for  a  bribe,  bear 
ing  another  name  than  his  own  in  Italy ;  indeed,  he  might 
have  joined  them  only  as  an  informer.  All  this  he  had  tried 
to  sink,  when  he  came  to  England  in  the  character  of  a 
gentleman  of  ancient  name  and  large  estate.  But  this  in 
famy  of  his  previous  character  must  be  foreboded  from  the 
first  by  the  manner  in  which  Eldredge  is  introduced  ;  and 
it  must  make  his  evil  designs  on  Middleton  appear  natural 
and  probable.  It  may  be,  that  Middleton  has  learned  El 
dredge's  previous  character,  through  some  Italian  patriot 
who  had  taken  refuge  in  America,  and  there  become  inti 
mate  with  him ;  and  it  should  be  a  piece  of  secret  history, 
not  known  to  the  world  in  general,  so  that  Middleton  might 
seem  to  Eldredge  the  sole  depositary  of  the  secret  then  in 
England.  He  feels  a  necessity  of  getting  rid  of  him  ;  and 
thenceforth  Middleton's  path  lies  always  among  pitfalls  ;  in 
deed,  the  first  attempt  should  follow  promptly  and  imma« 
VOL.  xi.  33 


614  APPENDIX. 

diately  on  his  rupture  with  Eldredge.  The  utmost  pairia 
must  be  taken  with  this  incident  to  give  it  an  air  of  reality ; 
or  else  it  must  be  quite  removed  out  of  the  sphere  of  reality 
by  an  intensified  atmosphere  of  romance.  I  think  the  old 
Hospitaller  must  interfere  to  prevent  the  success  of  this  at 
tempt,  perhaps  through  the  means  of  Alice. 

The  result  of  Eldredge's  criminal  and  treacherous  de 
signs  is,  somehow  or  other,  that  he  comes  to  his  death ;  and 
Middleton  and  Alice  are  left  to  administer  on  the  remains 
of  the  story ;  perhaps,  the  Mayor  being  his  friend,  he  may 
be  brought  into  play  here.  The  foreign  ecclesiastic  shall 
likewise  come  forward,  and  he  shall  prove  to  be  a  man  of 
subtile  policy  perhaps,  yet  a  man  of  religion  and  honor ; 
with  a  Jesuit's  principles,  but  a  Jesuit's  devotion  and  self- 
sacrifice.  The  old  Hospitaller  must  die  in  his  bed,  or  some 
other  how  ;  or  perhaps  not  —  we  shall  see.  He  may  just 
as  well  be  left  in  the  Hospital.  Eldredge's  attempt  on  Mid 
dleton  must  be  in  some  way  peculiar  to  Italy,  and  which  he 
shall  have  learned  there  ;  and,  by  the  way,  at  his  dinner- 
table  there  shall  be  a  Venice  glass,  one  of  the  kind  that  were 
supposed  to  be  shattered  when  poison  was  put  into  them. 
When  Eldredge  produces  his  rare  wine,  he  shall  pour  it  into 
this,  with  a  jesting  allusion  to  the  legend.  Perhaps  the 
mode  of  Eldredge's  attempt  on  Middleton's  life  shall  be  a 
reproduction  of  the  attempt  made  two  hundred  years  be 
fore  ;  and  Middleton's  knowledge  of  that  incident  shall  be 
the  means  of  his  salvation.  That  would  be  a  good  idea  ;  in 
fact,  I  think  it  must  be  done  so  and  no  otherwise.  It  is 
not  to  be  forgotten  that  there  is  a  taint  of  insanity  in  El 
dredge's  blood,  accounting  for  much  that  is  wild  and  absurd, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  must  be  subtile,  in  his  conduct ;  one 
of  those  perplexing  mad  people,  whose  lunacy  you  are  con 
tinually  mistaking  for  wickedness  or  vice  versa.  This  shall 
be  the  priest's  explanation  and  apology  for  him,  after  his 
death.  I  wish  I  could  get  hold  of  the  Newgate  Calendar, 
the  older  volumes,  or  any  other  book  of  murders  —  the 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  515 

Causes  Celebres,  for  instance.  The  legendary  murder,  or 
attempt  at  it,  will  bring  its  own  imaginative  probability  with 
it,  when  repeated  by  Eldredge  ;  and  at  the  same  time  it  will 
have  a  dreamlike  effect ;  so  that  Middleton  shall  hardly 
know  whether  he  is  awake  or  not.  This  incident  is  very 
essential  towards  bringing  together  the  past  time  and  the 
present,  and  the  two  ends  of  the  story. 

May  18th,  Tuesday.  —  Ah1  down  through  the  ages  since 
Edward  had  disappeared  from  home,  leaving  that  bloody 
footstep  on  the  threshold,  there  had  been  legends  and 
strange  stories  of  the  murder  and  the  manner  of  it.  These 
legends  differed  very  much  among  themselves.  According 
to  some,  his  brother  had  awaited  him  there,  and  stabbed 
him  on  the  threshold.  According  to  others,  he  had  been 
murdered  in  his  chamber,  and  dragged  out.  A  third  story 
told,  that  he  was  escaping  with  his  lady  love,  when  they 
were  overtaken  on  the  threshold,  and  the  young  man  slain. 
It  was  impossible  at  this  distance  of  time  to  ascertain  which 
of  these  legends  was  the  true  one,  or  whether  either  of  them 
had  any  portion  of  truth,  further  than  that  the  young  man 
had  actually  disappeared  from  that  night,  and  that  it  never 
was  certainly  known  to  the  public  that  any  intelligence  had 
ever  afterwards  been  received  from  him.  Now,  Middieton 
may  have  communicated  to  Eldredge  the  truth  in  regard  to 
the  matter  ;  as,  for  instance,  that  he  had  stabbed  him  with 
a  certain  dagger  that  was  still  kept  among  the  curiosities  of 
the  manor-house.  Of  course,  that  will  not  do.  It  must  be 
some  very  ingenious  and  artificially  natural  thing,  an  artistic 
affair  in  its  way,  that  should  strike  the  fancy  of  such  a  man 
as  Eldredge,  and  appear  to  him  altogether  fit,  mutatis  mu 
tandis,  to  be  applied  to  his  own  requirements  and  purposes. 
I  do  not  at  present  see  in  the  least  how  this  is  to  be  wrought 
out.  There  shall  be  everything  to  make  Eldredge  look  with 
the  utmost  horror  and  alarm  at  any  chance  that  he  may  be 
superseded  and  ousted  from  his  possession  of  the  estate; 
for  he  shall  only  recently  have  established  his  claim  to  it. 


516  APPENDIX. 

tracing  out  his  pedigree,  when  the  family  was  supposed  to 
be  extinct.  And  he  is  come  to  these  comfortable  quarters 
after  a  life  of  poverty,  uncertainty,  difficulty,  hanging  loose 
on  society ;  and  therefore  he  shall  be  willing  to  risk  soul 
and  body  both,  rather  than  return  to  his  former  state.  Per 
haps  his  daughter  shall  be  introduced  as  a  young  Italian 
girl,  to  whom  Middleton  shall  decide  to  leave  the  estate. 

On  the  failure  of  his  design,  Eldredge  may  commit  sui 
cide,  and  be  found  dead  in  the  wood ;  at  any  rate,  some 
suitable  end  shall  be  contrived,  adapted  to  his  wants.  This 
character  must  not  be  so  represented  as  to  shut  him  out 
completely  from  the  reader's  sympathies ;  he  shall  have 
taste,  sentiment,  even  a  capacity  for  affection,  nor,  I  think, 
ought  he  to  have  any  hatred  or  bitter  feeling  against  the 
man  whom  he  resolves  to  murder.  In  the  closing  scenes, 
when  he  thinks  the  fate  of  Middleton  approaching,  there 
might  even  be  a  certain  tenderness  towards  him,  a  desire  to 
make  the  last  drops  of  life  delightful ;  if  well  done,  this 
would  produce  a  certain  sort  of  horror,  that  I  do  not  remem 
ber  to  have  seen  effected  in  literature.  Possibly  the  ancient 
emigrant  might  be  supposed  to  have  fallen  into  an  ancient 
mine,  down  a  precipice,  into  some  pitfall ;  no,  not  so.  Into 
a  river  ;  into  a  moat.  As  Middleton 's  pretensions  to  birth 
are  not  publicly  known,  there  will  be  no  reason  why,  at  his 
sudden  death,  suspicion  should  fix  on  Eldredge  as  the 
murderer  ;  and  it  shall  be  his  object  so  to  contrive  his  death 
as  that  it  shall  appear  the  result  of  accident.  Having  failed 
in  effecting  Middleton's  death  by  this  excellent  way,  he 
shall  perhaps  think  that  he  cannot  do  better  than  to  make 
his  own  exit  in  precisely  the  same  manner.  It  might  be 
easy,  and  as  delightful  as  any  death  could  be  ;  no  ugliness 
in  it,  no  blood  ;  for  the  Bloody  Footstep  of  old  times  might 
be  the  result  of  the  failure  of  the  old  plot,  not  of  its  success. 
Poison  seems  to  be  the  only  elegant  method ;  but  poison  is 
vulgar,  and  in  many  respects  unfit  for  my  purpose.  It 
won't  do.  Whatever  it  may  be,  it  must  not  come  upon  the 


TEE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  517 

reader  as  a  sudden  and  new  tiling,  but  as  one  that  might 
have  been  foreseen  from  afar,  though  he  shall  not  actually 
have  foreseen  it  until  it  is  about  to  happen.  It  must  be 
prevented  through  the  agency  of  Alice.  Alice  may  have 
been  an  artist  in  Rome,  and  there  have  known  Eldredge 
and  his  daughter,  and  thus  she  may  have  become  their 
guest  in  England ;  or  he  may  be  patronizing  her  now  —  at 
all  events  she  shall  be  the  friend  of  the  daughter,  and  shall 
have  a  just  appreciation  of  the  father's  character.  It  shall 
be  partly  due  to  her  high  counsel  that  Middleton  foregoes 
his  claim  to  the  estate,  and  prefers  the  life  of  an  American, 
with  its  lofty  possibilities  for  himself  and  his  race,  to  the 
position  of  an  Englishman  of  property  and  title ;  and  she, 
for  her  part,  shall  choose  the  condition  and  prospects  of 
woman  in  America,  to  the  emptiness  of  the  life  of  a  woman 
of  rank  in  England.  So  they  shall  depart,  lofty  and  poor, 
out  of  the  home  which  might  be  their  own.  if  they  would 
stoop  to  make  it  so.  Possibly  the  daughter  of  Eldredge 
may  be  a  girl  not  yet  in  her  teens,  for  whom  Alice  has  the 
affection  of  an  elder  sister. 

It  should  be  a  Terr  carefully  and  highly  wrought  scene, 
occurring  just  before  Eldredge's  actual  attempt  on  Middle- 
ton's  life,  in  which  aH  the  brilliancy  of  his  character  — 
which  shall  before  have  gleamed  upon  the  reader  —  shall 
come  out,  with  pathos,  with  wit,  with  insight,  with  knowl 
edge  of  life.  Middleton  shall  be  inspired  by  this,  and  shall 
vie  with  him  in  exhilaration  of  spirits ;  but  the  ecclesiastic 
sha.ll  look  on  with  singular  attention,  and  some  appearance 
of  alarm ;  and  the  suspicion  of  Alice  shall  likewise  be 
aroused.  The  old  Hospitaller  may  have  gained  his  situa 
tion  partly  by  proving  himself  a  man  of  the  neighborhood, 
by  right  of  descent  ;  so  that  he,  too,  shall  have  a  heredi 
tary  claim  to  be  in  the  Romance. 

Eldredge's  own  position  as  a  foreigner  in  the  midst  of 
English  home  life,  insulated  and  dreary,  shall  represent  to 
Middleton.  in  some  degree,  what  his  own  would  be,  were  he 


518  APPENDIX. 

to  accept  the  estate.  But  Middleton  shall  not  come  to  the 
decision  to  resign  it,  without  having  to  repress  a  deep  yearn 
ing  for  that  sense  of  long,  long  rest  in  an  age-consecrated 
home,  which  he  had  felt  so  deeply  to  be  the  happy  lot  of 
Englishmen.  But  this  ought  to  be  rejected,  as  not  belong 
ing  to  his  country,  nor  to  the  age,  nor  any  longer  possible. 

May  19^/t,  Wednesday.  —  The  connection  of  the  old  Hos 
pitaller  with  the  story  is  not  at  all  clear.  He  is  an  Ameri 
can  by  birth,  but  deriving  his  English  origin  from  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  Hospital,  where  he  has  finally  established 
himself.  Some  one  of  his  ancestors  may  have  been  some 
how  connected  with  the  ancient  portion  of  the  story.  He 
has  been  a  friend  of  Middleton's  father,  who  reposed  entire 
confidence  in  him,  trusting  him  with  all  his  fortune,  which 
the  Hospitaller  risked  in  his  enormous"  speculations,  and 
lost  it  all.  His  fame  had  been  great  in  the  financial  world. 
There  were  circumstances  that  made  it  dangerous  for  his 
whereabouts  to  be  known,  and  so  he  had  come  hither  and 
found  refuge  in  this  institution,  where  Middleton  finds  him, 
but  does  not  know  who  he  is.  In  the  vacancy  of  a  mind 
formerly  so  active,  he  has  taken  to  the  study  of  local  an 
tiquities  ;  and  from  his  former  intimacy  with  Middleton's 
father,  he  has  a  knowledge  of  the  American  part  of  the 
story,  which  he  connects  with  the  English  portion,  disclosed 
by  his  researches  here  ;  so  that  he  is  quite  aware  that  Mid 
dleton  has  claims  to  the  estate,  which  might  be  urged  suc 
cessfully  against  the  present  possessor.  He  is  kindly  dis 
posed  towards  the  son  of  his  friend,  whom  he  had  so  greatly 

injured  ;  but  he  is  now  very  old,  and .     Middleton  has 

been  directed  to  this  old  man  by  a  friend  in  America,  as 
one  likely  to  afford  him  all  possible  assistance  in  his  re 
searches  ;  and  so  he  seeks  him  out  and  forms  an  acquain 
tance  with  him,  which  the  old  man  encourages  to  a  cer 
tain  extent,  taking  an  evident  interest  in  him,  but  does  not 
disclose  himself;  nor  does  Middleton  suspect  him  to  be 
an  American.  The  characteristic  life  of  the  Hospital  i§ 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  519 

brought  out,  and  the  individual  character  of  this  old  man, 
vegetating  here  after  an  active  career,  melancholy  and  mis 
erable  ;  sometimes  torpid  with  the  slow  approach  of  utmost 
age ;  sometimes  feeble,  peevish,  wavering ;  sometimes  shin 
ing  out  with  a  wisdom  resulting  from  originally  bright  fac 
ulties,  ripened  by  experience.  The  character  must  not  be 
allowed  to  get  vague,  but,  with  gleams  of  romance,  must  yet 
be  kept  homely  and  natural  by  little  touches  of  his  daily  life. 

As  for  Alice,  I  see  no  necessity  for  her  being  anywise 
related  to  or  connected  with  the  old  Hospitaller.  As  orig 
inally  conceived,  I  think  she  may  be  an  artist  —  a  sculptress 
—  whom  Eldredge  had  known  in  Rome.  No ;  she  might 
be  a  granddaughter  of  the  old  Hospitaller,  born  and  bred 
in  America,  but  who  had  resided  two  or  three  years  in 
Rome  in  the  study  of  her  art,  and  have  there  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  the  Eldredges  and  have  become  fond  of  the 
little  Italian  girl  his  daughter.  She  has  lodgings  in  the  vil 
lage,  and  of  course  is  often  at  the  Hospital,  and  often  at  the 
Hall ;  she  makes  busts  and  little  statues,  and  is  free,  wild, 
tender,  proud,  domestic,  strange,  natural,  artistic  ;  and  has 
at  bottom  the  characteristics  of  the  American  woman,  with 
the  principles  of  the  strong-minded  sect ;  and  Middleton 
shall  be  continually  puzzled  at  meeting  such  a  phenomenon 
in  England.  By  and  by,  the  internal  influence  [evidence  ?] 
of  her  sentiments  (though  there  shall  be  nothing  to  confirm 
it  in  her  manner)  shall  lead  him  to  charge  her  with  being 
an  American. 

Now,  as  to  the  arrangement  of  the  Romance  ;  —  it  begins 
as  an  integral  and  essential  part,  with  my  introduction,  giv 
ing  a  pleasant  and  familiar  summary  of  my  life  in  the  Con 
sulate  at  Liverpool ;  the  strange  species  of  Americans,  with 
strange  purposes,  in  England,  whom  I  used  to  meet  there ; 
and,  especially,  how  my  countrymen  used  to  be  put  out  of 
their  senses  by  the  idea  of  inheritances  of  English  property. 
Then  I  shall  particularly  instance  one  gentleman  who  called 
on  me  on  first  coming  over ;  a  description  of  him  must  be 


520  APPENDIX. 

given,  with  touches  that  shall  puzzle  the  reader  to  decide 
whether  it  is  not  an  actual  portrait.  And  then  this  Ro 
mance  shall  be  offered,  half  seriously,  as  the  account  of  the 
fortunes  that  he  met  with  in  his  search  for  his  hereditary 
home.  Enough  of  his  ancestral  story  may  be  given  to  ex 
plain  what  is  to  follow  in  the  Romance ;  or  perhaps  this 
may  be  left  to  the  scenes  of  his  intercourse  with  the  old 
Hospitaller. 

The  Romance  proper  opens  with  Middleton's  arrival  at 
what  he  has  reason  to  think  is  the  neighborhood  of  his  an 
cestral  home,  and  here  he  makes  application  to  the  old  Hos 
pitaller.  Middleton  shall  be  described  as  approaching  the 
Hospital,  which  shall  be  pretty  literally  copied  after  Leices 
ter's,  although  the  surrounding  village  must  be  on  a  much 
smaller  scale  of  course.  Much  elaborateness  may  be  given 
to  this  portion  of  the  book.  Middleton  shall  have  assumed 
a  plain  dress,  and  shall  seek  to  make  no  acquaintances  ex 
cept  that  of  the  old  Hospitaller ;  the  acquaintance  of  Alice 
naturally  following.  The  old  Hospitaller  and  he  go  to 
gether  to  the  old  Hall,  where,  as  they  pass  through  the 
rooms,  they  find  that  the  proprietor  is  flitting  like  a  ghost 
before  them  from  chamber  to  chamber;  they  catch  his  re 
flection  in  a  glass,  &c.,  &c.  When  these  have  been  wrought 
up  sufficiently,  shall  come  the  scene  in  the  wood,  where  El- 
dredge  is  seen  yielding  to  the  superstition  that  he  has  in 
herited,  respecting  the  old  secret  of  the  family,  on  the  dis 
covery  of  which  depends  the  enforcement  of  his  claim  to  a 
title.  All  this  while,  Middleton  has  appeared  in  the  char 
acter  of  a  man  of  no  note  ;  and  now,  through  some  political 
change,  not  necessarily  told,  he  receives  a  packet  addressed 
to  him  as  an  ambassador,  and  containing  a  notice  of  his  ap 
pointment  to  that  dignity.  A  paragraph  in  the  "  Times  " 
confirms  the  fact,  and  makes  it  known  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  Middleton  immediately  becomes  an  object  of  atten 
tion  ;  the  gentry  call  upon  him  ;  the  Mayor  of  the  neigh 
boring  county-town  invites  him  to  dinner,  which  shall  be 


THE  ANCESTRAL  FOOTSTEP.  521 

described  with  all  its  antique  formalities;  Here  he  meets 
Eldredge,  who  is  surprised,  remembering  the  encounter  in 
the  wood  ;  but  passes  it  all  off,  like  a  man  of  the  world, 
makes  his  acquaintance,  and  invites  him  to  the  Hall.  Per 
haps  he  may  make  a  visit  of  some  time  here,  and  become 
intimate,  to  a  certain  degree,  with  all  parties;  and  here 
things  shall  ripen  themselves  for  Eldredge 's  attempt  upon 
his  life. 


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